


For the Crown

by moonlighten



Series: For King and Country [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fantasy, M/M, Magic, Magic-Users, Pining, Royalty, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Wizards, more precisely: Childhood Rivals to Enemies to Friends to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-17
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2020-10-20 18:08:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 71,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20679677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonlighten/pseuds/moonlighten
Summary: High Mage Florian De Courcy is not suited to running, either by constitution or by character.When the tide of battle turns against the prince he serves, he is nevertheless forced to run, with his enemies close at his heels.It ends just as badly as he had expected it would. Perhaps even worse, once he discovers that the man who leads the band of soldiers sent to hunt him down is someone he has known almost all his life, and hated just as long.(Slow burn m/m set in a fantasy world which is loosely based on a mixture of the Roman Empire and 19th century England.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Enemies to Friends to Lovers is one of my best loved tropes, and Childhood Rivals to Enemies to Friends to Lovers my favourite variation upon it. Try as I might, I haven't been able to make it work for any of my favourite pairings, so I thought I'd attempt it as an original work...
> 
> (Cheating a little bit, though, as the main characters/pairing here are something of a riff on my OTP, and the setting is a riff on a fantasy world I have used in other fics.)

* * *

Florian is not suited to running, either by constitution or by character.  
  
Once, he might have been. Back when he'd first joined His Highness' household – just recently come of age and even more recently titled, whip sharp and hungry – he hadn't been any more inclined towards exerting himself, but he would have found the drive from somewhere. Would have dug deep, gritted his teeth, and endured.  
  
But all the intervening years of fine foods and comfortable living have taken their toll. He is – he can finally admit to himself now, in extremis – overweight, out of shape, and decidedly overdressed.  
  
Lord Hughes had counselled him to armour himself before the battle or, at the very least, avail himself of a sturdy pair of boots, but Florian had scoffed at this well-meaning and foresighted advice. He had, in his naiveté, imagined himself in the place of the Battle Mages of old, as they had been depicted in the woodcuts and paintings he had spent so many hours admiring as a child: their robes billowing dramatically about them as they stood tall atop a distant mountain, raining fire and lightning down on their massed enemies below, far away from the clamour, stink, and _danger_ of the real fighting.  
  
But those paintings had all been lies, and the Florian of two days ago was an idiot. The Florian of today despises him.  
  
The soles of his fine brocade slippers – which had been the talk and the envy of His Highness' court not even a week ago – are worn through in spots, and near every step he takes provides him with yet another painful reminder of his own hubris as some jagged rock, broken stick, or prickly plant becomes intimately acquainted with the soft underside of his foot. The midnight blue silk robe he'd so admired when he'd taken receipt of it from the royal tailor is also worse than useless now after last night's rain, the sodden weight of it dragging on his shoulders and leeching all the heat from his skin.  
  
He would gladly strip the robe off and cast it aside were he also wearing the shirt and trousers the tailor had suggested would be the perfect accompaniment to it. But he is clad only in his vest and drawers beneath, because, well, he is an _idiot_.  
  
He mutters this admonishment over and again as he scrambles up the steep, scree-littered hillside before him – on his hands and knees, because the beautiful, flamboyant, absolutely fucking ridiculous and impractical long tails of his robe keep tangling around his legs and sending him stumbling.  
  
By the time he reaches the hill's apex, he hasn't the breath left to spare for self-recrimination, and for a long while afterwards, he crouches where he lands, one arm wrapped around his sore chest, the other braced against the ground, as he desperately tries to suck in enough air to keep himself from passing out.  
  
When his vision clears, and he feels cautiously optimistic about his chances of moving without his stomach losing its tenuous hold on the handful of sour berries he'd resentfully breakfasted upon that morning, he straightens up and peers over the other side of the hill.  
  
It's even steeper than the one that he'd just climbed but, mercifully, far shorter, flattening out into a wide plateau only a hundred ells or so distant. On first glance, its no different to the rest of the desolate wilderness surrounding it – who knew that a veritable _wasteland_ lay so close at hand beyond Eboracum's staunch encircling walls? Certainly not Florian, or he would never have been so dismissive about those boots – just a patchy carpet of heather and gorse bushes, amongst which a smattering of scrawny trees have gamely taken root. Between their sparse branches, Florian catches a glimpse of something that makes his sorely abused heart swell with hope; something formed of lines far too regular to be a natural feature of the landscape.  
  
He thinks it could be a hut, of the sort he's read that shepherds and other such hardy denizens of these dales build to shelter from the worst of the often-cruel weather.  
  
Buoyed with fresh optimism and renewed purpose, Florian's first two downward strides are steady, confident, and sure. His damned unsuitable shoes slip on his third stride, he loses his footing entirely on the fourth, and the remainder of his descent is made in an undignified, lurching rush, arms pinwheeling.  
  
His desperate momentum carries him to the base of the hill and beyond, almost to the door of the hut. It's smaller than it looked from above – smaller even than Florian's dressing room in his bedchambers at the palace – built from warped wooden boards, weathered grey by the rain and the years. But its thatched roof is sturdy, and it looks far more homely and inviting than the ditch in which Florian had spent an unsettled few hours trying to sleep last night.  
  
He pushes at the warped door, and it creaks open to reveal a mostly empty room, deeply shadowed despite the bright midday sun outside. The only furnishings are an old packing crate – doing duty as a table and home to a rusty lamp, dry of oil – and a thin straw tick mattress. No blankets are in evidence, and the mattress itself is damp and stinks of something sharp and offensively musky, which Florian can only assume is sheep dung.  
  
He sinks down onto it gratefully, nevertheless. Falls onto it, more like, because his legs give out from beneath him, suddenly and completely, as though his body has become a burden too great for them to bear for even a second longer.  
  
He has not been able to shut his eyes for more than a few minutes together at a time since he fled the battlefield. With the baying of Prince Caerwyn's hounds behind him, the promise of safety so far ahead, and no Second to keep watch over him whilst he slept, he hadn't had the courage to do so.  
  
He had lost sight of his Second, poor Mayhew, when Prince Caerwyn's soldiers swarmed the watchtower and he'd turned to face them, expression set grim and sword raised.  
  
"Run, sir," he'd said. "Put your head down and run, and don't you look back."  
  
And Florian – far wiser then than he had been only scant hours before – had followed _his_ advice to the letter. He'd run until his lungs felt as though they were bleeding, his muscles tore, and his joints all burnt with cold fire, and he'd run for many miles more after that, but he can't go on any further.  
  
Because the deep, gnawing emptiness that fills his chest and his belly has grown so vast now that he can no longer bear it. There is no magic inside him anymore, not a speck; he'd drained it all raining fire and lightning down on his enemies, for all the good it did him in the end.  
  
A few hours of sleep will help recover his power sufficiently that he'll be capable of summoning up a spell or two to defend himself if needs be. A day or two of peace would be enough to replenish himself completely, but he cannot depend on that. He has not heard the hounds for several hours now, nor the tread of Prince's Caerwyn's soldiers, but they are unlikely to have given up their chase and he has been careless, with no energy or thought to spare for covering his trail.  
  
Despite his exhaustion, he expects sleep will be slow to come without loyal Mayhew's steadfast presence at his side, but he drifts off quickly and easily between one blink of his eyes and the next.  
  
He wakes to a rasp of sound and a small swell of heat, licking across his exposed cheek. A sparking match, its tiny flame so bright and unexpected that it dazzles Florian momentarily, and disorients him to such a degree that he doesn't even think about trying to move before a hand clutches his shoulder, holding him down hard against his borrowed mattress, and the possibility of effecting his escape has already passed.  
  
"High Mage," says someone in the cool darkness beyond the light of the match, "you certainly are a slippery bugger. I'll give you that, if nothing else."

The voice is low, gravelly, and horribly, sickeningly familiar.  
  
Jack fucking Rayner. Florian's life, it seems, is still capable of becoming even _worse_.  
  



	2. Chapter 2

* * *

The practiced words of a defensive spell spring to Florian's lips and his right hand rises instinctively, palm flat and fingers already moving in a complex dance that is so deeply ingrained in his muscles that it comes to him as naturally as his next breath.  
  
He draws deep on the fire which burns at his core, past viscera, sinew, and bone; on the energy that thrums in the air and pulses through the earth and stone beneath him; and on the faint, whispered power of the Otherworld.  
  
The magic courses through him, surges along the length of his outstretched arm, and bursts from his fingertips in a shower of dull sparks which hang suspended in the air for no more than the span of a heartbeat before pattering uselessly to the hut's floorboards.  
  
There follows a short, heavy silence, and then the voice in the dark says: "Well, that was just embarrassing. I hear apothecaries make pills to help with that sort of thing."  
  
In His Highness' court, Florian is known for his viper's tongue. Maybe even feared for it, and his ability to puncture all but the most robust of egos with a few well-chosen words.  
  
He opens his mouth again. "Fuck off," slips out.  
  
Ah, that famous De Courcy rapier wit; never fails him.  
  
Rayner inhales sharply, but not in a way that suggests he has been wounded and cut down to the quick. It sounds more like the start of laughter, quickly smothered and bitten back.  
  
"Okay, then," he says, shifting his hands from Florian's shoulders to his biceps. "You're coming with me."  
  
He hoicks Florian to his feet with embarrassing ease then sends him stumbling out of the hut's door with a hefty shove to the small of his back. Outside, the sun is high and searing in a clear blue sky, and Florian stands at the top of the rickety set of stairs that lead down from the hut, blinking back tears whilst his eyes adjust to the light.  
  
Wood creaks when Rayner steps up behind him, and Florian's skin prickles as the short hairs at the nape of his neck stand on end. He feels very much like he imagines a hunted animal would, upon having caught sight or scent of a predator. Or, perhaps more accurately, like a man who is being looked over very slowly and thereafter being appraised and judged.  
  
"What in all the many hells are you wearing?" Rayner says, not bothering to hold in his laughter this time.  
  
Florian looks down at his once beautiful robe. It appears more black than blue now, darkened with mud and grass-stains, and is liberally bespattered with crusty, foetid reminders of the grim lesson Florian had learnt about the inadvisability of drinking standing water, no matter how parched his throat might be. The skirts are in tatters, torn all the way up to his knees. He can see flashes of his drawers beneath.  
  
His cheeks burn, but he squares his shoulders, tilts his nose high. "The raiment of my office," he says coolly.  
  
"The raiment of your office?" Rayner repeats, his voice going high and shrill in a way that sounds nothing like Florian's, though it is clearly meant as mockery of that kind. "You do know that Battle Mages didn't really wear robes like they do in the paintings, right? That's just artistic license. They would have worn leather armour."  
  
Of course Florian knows that, but his childhood dreams had never involved armour. He suspects Rayner's might have, though.  
  
He turns, expecting to see Rayner clad in a breastplate, bracers and greaves, but he is wearing the uniform of a soldier: a long-tailed green coat with coppery brown lapels - Prince Caerwyn's colours – and dark, close-fitting trousers tucked into leather riding boots. There is a bronze sword sheathed at his hip – iron is anathema to magic – with protective runes etched upon the crossguard, edged in gold.  
  
Florian nods towards it. "Are you acting as your own Second now?" he asks.  
  
"No," Rayner says, touching his left hand to the sword's jewelled pommel, "though if I needed to, I could."  
  
Florian doesn't doubt it: Rayner's shoulders are broad, his chest deep and thick. They were of a height when last they met, but Rayner has half a head on Florian now, which Florian thinks very unfair, as _he_ didn't grow an inch after he came of age.  
  
Reluctantly, he shifts his gaze to Rayner's face, to see what changes the years have wrought there. Not that many, it turns out. His jaw is just as firm as it used to be, his mouth just as soft. His grey eyes are still shadowed and unreadable. His ever-present stubble is much less patchy than it had been in his youth, though, and his dark hair is worn far longer, falling over his brow in wild curls.  
  
He bows his head under Florian's scrutiny, and his hand returns to Florian's back. He doesn't push him this time but urges him forward with a steady pressure.  
  
He follows close at Florian's shoulder, close enough that their hips bump together on every other step and too close for Rayner's comfort, seemingly, because his nostrils flare, his teeth bare in a grimace, and he says, "You stink."  
  
Rayner smells like a soldier as much as he looks like one, like clean sweat, road dust, and horse, with the faint burnt tin scent of magic underlying it all.  
  
Florian tells him, "So do you," on reflex anyway, as petty as a child.  
  
Because seeing Rayner makes him feel as though he's regressed two decades and is ten years old again, standing at Rayner's side in their new school as he waits for a master to greet them, his stomach twisting itself up into painful, anxious knots. He'd so wanted to make a good impression then, to do well, but Rayner had met his tentative overtures of friendship with sneers and slurs against his clothes, his manners, and his fastidiousness.  
  
Florian fears that insults to Rayner's parentage will follow just as reflexively, so he presses his lips together, held close against his teeth.  
  
Rayner steers him away from the hut and further down the hill, towards a more densely wooded area at its base. As they draw near, a young woman strides out from amongst the trees to greet them.  
  
She is almost as tall as Florian, with tan skin and glossy black hair pulled back smooth against her skull, its length wrapped in a martial queue. She's wearing the same uniform as Rayner, but the sword she carries is steel.  
  
Rayner's Second, Florian presumes.  
  
"You caught him, then?" she says as she approaches them.  
  
"Aye," Rayner says. "He didn't put up much of a fight."  
  
And he hadn't expected him to do so either, Florian realises, blood rushing to his face again. He wouldn't have left his Second behind if he had.  
  
Rayner lifts his hand from Florian's back and cups it loosely about his elbow. "Go fetch him a horse," he tells his Second.  
  
"Right away." She gives Rayner a salute which makes him smirk and roll his eyes, then wheels around and strides off in the direction of the trees again, calling back over her shoulder, "I live to serve, High Mage."  
  
Florian bristles, anger roiling in his guts. "You have absolutely no right to that title," he says. "It is reserved only for the head mage of the monarch or their heir. Your prince is neither."  
  
Rayner's jaw stiffens and the fingers of his free hand curl towards his palm, forming a fist. How quickly Florian forgets that he is _an_ _idiot_. He should have known better and held his tongue. Rayner could likely separate his head from his neck with a single punch and Florian wouldn't be able to do a thing about it, with no magic left to protect him.  
  
He's never been one for fisticuffs, but he braces himself for the blow as best he can. He won't go down without a fight, even if it turns out to be a sad, pathetic attempt at one.  
  
Rayner exhales hard through his nose once, twice, sounding like an enraged bull, and then rolls his shoulders as if to loosen them and shakes out his hand from its tight clench.  
  
"We'll have to see about that, won't we?" he says, the words curt and clipped.  
  
He lapses into silence then, and Florian thinks it prudent to do the same. Neither of them stirs until Rayner's Second returns, leading a horse behind her.  
  
It's more of a pony, really: a stocky little thing with a shaggy bay coat, long feathers on its legs, and dried leaves and clumps of mud all tangled up in its mane. Florian used to have his own destrier.  
  
Rayner takes it from her, tugs on its reins until it comes to an uneasy halt in front of Florian. It lays its ears back at him, its ragged tail flicking dangerously.  
  
"On you get," Rayner says, patting the pony's saddle. He gives Florian another humiliatingly slow once over, head to toe. His smirk returns. "I can give you a leg-up, if you find you can't manage it in that dress of yours."


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

Florian had passed by the old building on the corner of Ramsgate and Jumble Street near every day of his life, on his way to attend services at the Silent God's temple or visit Grandmama with Mother. It was squat, square and plain-fronted like so many others in Eboracum, built from bricks of the buttery local stone blacked at their margins by soot and smoke, and had never appeared particularly imposing before.  
  
It did now. Its many dark windows looked like eyes, staring judgementally down on Florian, standing so small and insignificant in front of its wrought iron gates, evaluating him and finding him wanting.  
  
Florian's ribs seemed to shrink under their regard, growing so tight that it hurt to breathe. He took an involuntary step backwards.  
  
Mother caught hold of his hand, squeezed it hard and held him still. "You belong here," she said, her voice firm and unshakeably certain. "Out of all the hundreds of boys and girls the Masters tested in town this year, they chose you, and only you, to study with them."  
  
And Master Hainsworth had said he was 'outstanding', that such talent, such potential and latent power, hadn't been seen in one as young as him – barely even ten-years-old, his birthday just passed three months back - for centuries. 'You'll go far,' she'd said, laying her hand against the crown of his head like a benison. 'I wouldn't be surprised if you became High Mage for the king himself one day.'  
  
Florian disentangled his fingers from Mother's and walked up to the gates again, freshly determined. Mother didn't follow him.  
  
"Aren't you coming with me?" he asked.  
  
"The gates do not open for anyone but the Masters and their students," Mother said. "They will not let me through. We'll see each other again on Templeday."  
  
Which was only five days away, not even a week, but Florian had never been parted from Mother for so long before. He couldn't even imagine what it might be like to wake up in the morning to something other than the sound of her calling his name, or go to bed without her tucking a quilt around him and pressing a dry kiss to his brow.  
  
His began stomach squirming again, as though it were filled with snakes all writhing around each other and chasing their tails inside him.  
  
He lifted his eyes to the brass plaque attached to the nearest gatepost, because it was something familiar, something cherished. He had read it near every day too, since he learnt his letters, even though the name embossed upon it was Old Brittonic and he had no idea how it should be pronounced. Neither did anyone else in Eboracum, which is why they called it the College instead, the capital letter always very emphatically and precisely pronounced.  
  
The premier school of magic in the whole of Northern Britannia, where they admitted only the most promising students in order to train them to be mages to the nobility.  
  
Near every night, Florian had dreamt of attending, but now that he was finally here, standing ready, he felt horribly unsure of himself. What if he wasn't really as skilled as his old teachers had told him, and as Master Hainsworth had thought. Not much was known about what went on inside the College, behind those enchanted gates, but rumours abounded that the Masters were punishingly strict. What if he couldn't keep up with his studies? Would they whip him? Cast him out?  
  
Mother's voice rang out from behind him. "Stop dawdling!"  
  
Florian recognised the brusque tone of her voice; her patience was thinning, promising a clip to the ear.  
  
He hurriedly placed a hand against the gates. He didn't even have to push; they parted at his touch, swinging open to reveal a small, neat lawn bordered by raised beds filled with colourful flowers. A gravelled path bisected the grass, and it felt far longer than the scant space would allow as Florian trudged along it towards a door which looked no different to the front door of Grandmama's house. It shouldn't be frightening at all, but still Florian paused in front of it and glanced back towards the cobbled street he'd just left.  
  
The gates had closed again. He couldn't see Mother anymore.  
  
Before Florian had chance to knock, the door opened just as silently as the gates had done. Florian took a deep breath and, legs trembling, stepped into the hallway beyond.  
  
It looked like the hallway of any normal house: several plain wooden doors leading off it, carpeted stairs leading up to the second floor, and scuffed brown tiles underfoot. In his secret heart of hearts, Florian was a little disappointed. The College of his dreams housed magnificent statues and paintings of ancient heroes – the Battle Mages and Sorcerers of story and song – the air was filled with eldritch lights and the sound of distant chanting, and, darting between elegant, fluted pillars, he caught shadowy glimpses of the fae.  
  
But here there were only the doors, stairs, and another boy, standing at the back of the room with a bulging canvas bag with frayed handles set at his feet. He was tall – much taller than Florian – and so thin and spindly that he seemed comprised solely of angles, his elbows sharp enough that that they had torn holes in the sleeves of his off-white shirt, seemingly.  
  
His hair was dark brown, almost black, a tangled riot of curls that defied all order, and his face was pale, except at the chin, where it was smudged with dirt. His generous mouth split wide with a smile when he caught sight of Florian, and he practically skipped across the tiles to greet him.  
  
"Ey up," he said, like Mother's gardener and the man who delivered their groceries did.  
  
"Hello," Florian replied, as was proper.  
  
"I'm Jack," the boy said, sticking out a hand for Florian to shake.  
  
Like his face, it was grimy and, Florian discovered when he cautiously took hold of it, rather sticky too.  
  
"I'm…" If nothing else, this was a fresh start for Florian; here, among strangers. He could be what he wanted to be, what he had always wished, and no-one could call him a liar for it. He made the decision then and there. "Florian. Florian De Courcy."  
  
"Florian De Courcy," Jack said in a strange accent, drawing out the vowels absurdly. And then he laughed, as if it sounded ridiculous to his ears, though it was nobody's fault but his own if it did. "That's a fancy name. Is it Gallian?"  
  
"_Oui_," Florian said, and then immediately wished he hadn't, as it was the only Gallian he knew. He hoped that Jack didn't know more of the language and want to converse in it, though that seemed unlikely as he silently repeated the word several times to himself afterwards, as though it felt strange and new in his mouth.  
  
"Fancy clothes, too," Jack said, looking Florian up and down.  
  
"Not really," Florian said, surprised. He was dressed in the outfit he usually wore to temple services: cream shirt, black short coat and breeches, and white stockings. Smart, but not _fancy_.  
  
But maybe they appeared so to Jack, dressed in his torn shirt and too-short trousers, thinning at the knees. Florian would never have countenanced wearing such things on an important occasion like this, but they could be the best clothes Jack owned. Mother always told him that he shouldn't judge. Florian tried not to.  
  
"I can see my face in your shoes!" Jack continued, bending down to peer at them more closely. "You must live in the city."  
  
Jack's own boots were caked in dried mud and, more than likely, other, more unsavoury things.  
  
"Do you live on a farm?" Florian asked. He'd never smelt sheep dung before but thought it might explain both the state of Jack's boots and the foul, musky odour that had wafted across the hallway, trailing after him.  
  
"Naw," Jack said. "In the countryside."  
  
Florian hadn't been aware that there was anything _other_ than farms in the countryside, but then he'd never left Eboracum in his life before. On reflection, he supposed that farmers couldn’t grow everything they needed for themselves on their land, and must have to buy their books and their shoes and their breeches elsewhere, which meant the countryside had to have some manner of shops in it. Perhaps Jack's family owned one?  
  
Jack straightened up from his crouch and fished in the pocket of his trousers, producing a crumpled paper bag, striped in blue and white. "Would you like a sweet?" he said, holding it out towards Florian. "I've got humbugs, and rock, and sherbet lemons, and pear drops, and those big ones shaped like fish, but I'm not sure what they're called. Which one's your favourite?"  
  
"Erm…" Florian never ate sweets; Mother said that they would rot his teeth. But it was a generous offer, kindly made, and he didn't want to be impolite. "Sherbet lemons?"  
  
"Right." Jack dug down through the bag until he found one of the oval yellow sweets. Smiling triumphantly, he passed it to Florian. "There you go."  
  
It was blood-warm, starting to melt – which could explain Jack's sticky hand – and covered in detritus it must have picked up from the inside of Jack's pocket: dust and little snips of thread. Florian raised it to his lips but couldn't bring himself to put it in his mouth.  
  
Noting his hesitation, Jack asked, "What's wrong?"  
  
"It's… It's a bit dirty," Florian said reluctantly, because Grandmama said it was the height of bad manners to complain about a gift, but feeling the need to offer an explanation for his behaviour all the same. Jack's stormy eyes, narrowed in suspicion and fixed avidly on his face, seemed to demand one.  
  
Jack squinted at the sweet. "Just a bit of pocket fluff," he said, shrugging. "But if you're bothered about it…" He plucked it from Florian's fingers and scrubbed it against the front of his filthy trousers. "There. All gone now."  
  
He held it out for Florian to take, but Florian couldn't even bear to touch it after it had been subjected to that sort of treatment. He reared back from it reflexively.  
  
"Fucking hell, are you always this fussy?" Jack scowled at him. "Fine. I'll eat it myself, then."  
  
He popped the sweet in his mouth and started sucking on it noisily, his gaze fixed on the other end of the hallway, as far away from Florian as it could get.  
  
He was obviously angry. Florian had angered him; already, in the very first hour of their very first day, before their lessons had even begun. Theirs would be a small class, perhaps even just the two of them, and Florian had hoped that he'd get along with all his classmates. That he'd make friends, as he'd never quite been able to at his old school.  
  
He opened his mouth to apologise but was interrupted by the sound of a tread on the stairs.  
  
Looking up, Florian saw Master Hainsworth descending them, and happy to see a friendly face now that Jack's expression had turned so distinctly _un_friendly, he smiled at her.  
  
"There he is," Master Hainsworth said, warm and pleased, her own smile beaming. "The youngest student we've welcomed into our school for more than three hundred years!"  
  
But she strode straight past Florian to Jack and shook his grubby hand.  
  
There were only two months between them, Florian found out later that day. If he'd been born in autumn instead of midsummer, then his life might well have taken a different course entirely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bah, why didn't the Romans have a name for a county that wouldn't exist until centuries after they withdrew from Britain...
> 
> Jack's sweets are a bag of Yorkshire Mixture and the 'local stone' is [Yorkstone](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yorkstone).


	4. Chapter 4

Florian had learnt to ride on one of His Highness' retired racehorses, a graceful beast with smooth, loping strides; riding it had felt like being borne along atop a gently cresting wave.  
  
The stocky little pony has stocky little legs, every stride it takes is jarring, and Florian pines wistfully for the trousers he had been so thoughtless as to spurn. His thin cotton drawers are far from supportive, and though they can't have been riding for more than twenty minutes, his inner thighs have already started to chafe.  
  
Whenever the pony breaks into a jog to catch up with the pair of long-legged destriers ahead of it, he tries to follow the advice His Highness' horse master had bellowed out to him as he rode circles round and around the sandy arena behind the royal palace: sit deep, toes up in the stirrups and weight into his heels. But it's no use, he's still thrown around in the saddle, the most intimate and delicate portions of his anatomy pounding so violently against the hard rise of the pommel that he fears for his future ability to sire children.  
  
"Could you slow down?" he calls out, but his voice is ragged, pain-thinned, and the wind snatches the words easily from his lips and carries them away.  
  
Rayner and his Second – Fox, Rayner had called her, though whether that is her given name, surname or even a nickname, Florian has yet to ascertain – ride on unperturbed, their heads bent together, knees brushing close, and so enrapt in their own conversation that they wouldn't have heard Florian speak even if he'd been screaming directly into their ears, like as not.  
  
After the sharp sting of that annoyance has faded, Florian realises he can use their distraction to his advantage. Fox had lashed his hands tightly together, allowing him just enough wiggle room to extend his two index fingers and hook them under the saddle's pommel in a vain attempt to steady his seat, but his legs are still free. He lifts them from the pony's furry sides and then kicks.  
  
He kicks again and again, harder and harder, until the sound of his heels slamming against obstinate horse-flesh becomes loud enough that it attracts Rayner's attention, and he twists around in his saddle, the thin skin at the corners of his eyes crinkling with the breadth of his grin.  
  
"Buttons is a stubborn old thing," he says. "He only trots if _he_ wants to. And I don't think I've ever seen him canter."  
  
Florian had thought the pony an insult, meant to belittle him and make him look ridiculous, but it seems it was instead intended to keep him from fleeing on horseback. Although has amply proven to himself – and to Rayner, most likely – that he is incapable of doing so on foot, he contemplates making another attempt at it, anyway. He could slip out of the saddle whilst Rayner and Fox are distracted by one another, sprint towards the nearest bit of cover, and then…  
  
And then what? He'd had no destination in mind when he fled from the battle at the watchtower either, just put his head down and ran as Mayhew had exhorted him to do, and his arbitrarily decided path had only lead him further and further into a wilderness he has no idea how to navigate. They're doubtless deep within Prince Caerwyn's territory now, land inimical to him and the prince he serves, and he'd find no safe haven or respite between here and Eboracum.  
  
Without his magic, he cannot defend himself. He doesn't know how to swing a sword, shoot a bow, or even throw a punch in a way that doesn't do more damage to his own hand than his opponent's face. He's never had any interest in such things – or indeed any strenuous exercise of the sort that left him flushed and winded, his clothes brined with sweat – and there never seemed to be a pressing reason to force himself to learn, because, as a mage, he would always have a Second at his side, to serve as his secretary-cum-valet in peacetime, and in wartime, to guard his back whilst he concentrated on the complex and consuming process of weaving magic.  
  
Mayhew had frequently proposed teaching him the basics of hand-to-hand combat, but Florian had always declined, his belief in Mayhew's skills and loyalty as staunch as his laziness is deep-rooted. The decision seems laughably short-sighted now, with poor Mayhew likely dead or close to it, abandoned to bleed out alone in that watchtower by Prince Caerwyn's soldiers. They wouldn't have bothered taking him prisoner; unlike Florian, he has no value as a hostage.  
  
Perhaps having correctly conjectured that Florian's frantic kicking of the pony had been a poorly executed bid for escape, Rayner's own Second keeps a careful watch on Florian thereafter. Even though her mage clearly dismisses him, returns his attention to the path ahead and fills the air with mindless prattle once more, she offers him nothing more than an occasional affirming nod in response, just as clearly not listening to any of it. She keeps an ear cocked towards Florian, and every so often glares back at him too, her hand tightening threateningly around the hilt of her sword.  
  
Her knuckles are square, her fingers strong and blocky, and her shoulders are almost as broad as Rayner's. She could probably draw that sword and cut Florian's legs out from beneath him before he even made cover.  
  
So, Florian resigns himself to being jounced around and battered by the pony's saddle until they reach wherever it is that Rayner is leading them. It is not cowardice, but pragmatism. Other opportunities for escape will surely present themselves, ones with far greater chances of success. Until then, he will have to preserve what little remains of his strength as best he can and endure whatever indignities Rayner may subject him to with as much grace as he can muster. In Florian's position, it would be unwise to provoke him any more than he already has. A man only has to be alive to serve as a hostage, after all, and even Florian's prince would be willing to overlook, if not forgive, the odd contusion or broken bone so long as Florian was still capable of casting spells once he had healed from them.  
  
Thankfully, they do not have to ride for much longer – about ten minutes is Florian's best guess without recourse to his pocket watch – before they come into sight of a camp, nestled within a small clearing amongst the trees. It's not much of one, the sort of thing thrown up in haste by a band of soldiers on the move, consisting of nothing more than a few squat canvas tents encircling a fire, which is encircled in its turn by a handful of uniformed men and women, lounging around it. All look up at the sound of hoofbeats, but only one man stands and approaches the horses.  
  
It has been almost a decade since Florian last saw him, but he recognises the man instantly even at a distance: Rayner's younger brother, Charlie.  
  
Though their family resemblance was clear even as children, Charlie had looked like an unfinished, undercooked version of his brother: soft and doughy in both face and body.  
  
He has slimmed down considerably since then – though a hint of his youthful plumpness lingers in his rounded cheeks and the full swell of his stomach, which is straining the brass buttons of his coat – and his features are sharper and more well-defined. He is still snub-nosed, however, and his pale blue eyes are still kind. His smile is just as warm and welcoming as it ever was.  
  
He waves to Rayner and Fox, and then comes to a halt in front of Florian's pony. He bobs his head in a sloppy approximation of a bow, and greets him with: "Ey up, Florian. Long time, no see."  
  
"High Mage De Courcy," Florian snaps, because he hasn't lost the right to his proper title, even if he has nothing else to his name for the time being.  
  
Charlie's smile grows even wider. "Well, you haven't changed much."  
  
"He really hasn't," Rayner agrees. He dismounts his horse, half-helps, half-drags Florian down from the pony, and then tells his brother to: "Break up the camp. I want to make sure we make it home before it starts getting dark."  
  
Charlie's bow to his brother is deep and courteous, and when Rayner walks towards the fire, pushing Florian along ahead of him, the soldiers gathered there spring instantly to their feet, hands raised to their brows in salute, and the stolen title of 'High Mage' on their lips.  
  
Rayner's colour rises and he laughs, as though he finds their deference both amusing and embarrassing, but the smug curl of his mouth betrays that he is enjoying it.  
  
"At ease," he says, and all the soldiers fall back, save one woman who steps forward, eyeing Florian suspiciously.  
  
"Do you need any help with the prisoner, High Mage?" she asks.  
  
"Naw. Thanks, Jones, but I think I can manage," Rayner says, and he laughs again, apparently finding the intimation that Florian might pose any sort of threat similarly uproarious.  
  
For the moment, at least, he has the right of it, and Florian can no more resist being steered towards a nearby tent than he had been able to prevent Rayner throwing him up onto the pony or subsequently hauling him down from it.  
  
The tent looks no different to any of the others, but as soon as Florian steps inside it, he knows it must be Rayner's.  
  
There are two bedrolls laid out within, one neatly made, the other rumpled and dotted about with stained shirts and balled-up socks. The flimsy folding table set between the heads of the two rolls is bowing under the weight of a haphazard mountain of papers and leather-bound books, at the summit of which a stack of dirty tin plates is precariously balanced.  
  
Rayner's portion of their shared bedroom at school was kept in a similar state of disarray, no matter how many times Master Hainsworth implored him to tidy it up, citing the very real danger that the pile of refuse that masqueraded as his belongings might attract rats.   
  
She never _made_ him do it, though – none of the Masters ever made their _golden boy_ do anything he didn't want to – and the habits and benefits of neatness and order obviously still elude him to this day.  
  
The return of a pink tint to Rayner's cheeks suggests he may be slightly ashamed by the mess, all the same, but he makes no apologies for it. He simply sweeps his dirty clothes aside with his foot, then pushes heavily on Florian's shoulders, forcing him down until he has no choice but to sit on the equally dirty bedroll.  
  
Rayner retreats to the table and rummages through the chest crammed beneath it, eventually – after a great deal of clattering and muffled cursing – unearthing a coil of rope. He winds one end around his left hand, the other around his right, and then, when he moves to stand over Florian again, pulls the length taut between them.  
  
His face is a blank for the most part, but his eyes are shrewd, calculating, and Florian thinks that he might be contemplating garrotting him and passing it off as an accident. 'He just tripped and got himself all tangled up in the rope, Your Highness,' Florian imagines him telling his prince. 'Strangled to death before I even realised what was happening'. A tragic tale, but nothing that could have been done about it. Such a shame. Gone too young, wasted potential, oh, the tears that were shed, et cetera, et cetera.  
  
But Rayner doesn't wrap the rope around Florian's neck. Instead, he drops suddenly to his knees to the accompaniment of a loud huff of sighed breath, and then gingerly nudges at the hem of Florian's robe with his elbow, sliding it slowly up his legs.  
  
"What the fuck…?" Rayner barks out, shocked, when Florian's slippers are exposed, and then again, and louder, when his bare shins are. "Why aren't you wearing boots? Or trousers? I can understand not wanting to wear armour, but this?  
  
"You're obviously in sore need of better counsellors, High Mage. They may as well have sent you out to fight naked."  
  
Florian has excellent counsellors, he just wasn't sensible enough to listen to them. No power in the heavens or on the earth could compel him to admit as much to Rayner, though, so he stays silent, damning poor, prudent, ignored Lord Hughes in absentia.  
  
Still shaking his head over the fancied idiocy of Florian's advisors, Rayner makes quick work of tying Florian's ankles together with a series of complicated knots, which he strengthens yet further with a flicker of his fingers and murmured spell.  
  
"There," he says, sounding satisfied. "That should hold you. I just need to…"  
  
Whatever it is Rayner 'needs to' do goes unexplained, as he leaves the sentence unfinished and his whereabouts to Florian's imagination, ducking out of the tent without another word.  
  
Once his clumping footsteps have faded away out of earshot, Florian gets to work testing his restraints. He gnaws at the knots, pulls his hands and feet as far apart as they will go, wriggles and writhes, but only succeeds in giving himself rope burn and aching teeth.  
  
He subsides then, defeated for the moment, and casts his eye out across the tent, searching for some other means of distraction. He doesn't want to be left alone with his thoughts right now, certain they will wander persistently towards contemplating what fate and Rayner may have in store for him, and fretting uselessly over the same.  
  
He spots a small book wedged between the bedroll's pillow and tent wall, and shuffles across the blankets to get a closer look at it. The faded letters embossed on the spine proclaim it to be: '_Forty Nights in Gallia_ by _George Lewis_'.  
  
A syrupy romance novel of the sort he's sure holds no interest to Rayner, whose youthful tastes ran towards farfetched tales of adventure and derring-do. It must therefore belong to Fox and have been swept up by the chaotic tide of disorder that has crashed over the tent, washing it away from her bedside and depositing it at Rayner's.  
  
Florian has read the book four times himself, knows the plot beat for beat and almost word for word, but as there seems to be no better diversions on offer, it will have to do.  
  
It's a difficult task, attempting to dislodge the book with only two free fingers to work with, demanding so much of Florian's concentration that he doesn't even notice Rayner has returned until he clears his throat.  
  
"I brought you some warm water," he says when Florian looks up at him, motioning towards a steaming bucket set just inside the tent's entrance "and clean clothes." He pats the bundle of cloth tucked under his arm. "They're Charlie's, so they should be about the right size. You'll have to borrow a pair of my boots, which won't be, but no-one else has any to spare."  
  
"Oh," Florian says and then no more, because he can't think of anything fitting to add; so startled by this unexpected and unprecedented act of kindness that words escape him.  
  
"Like I said before, you reek," Rayner continues, "and I don't want you stinking up my prince's palace."  
  
Not kindness then, only the illusion of it. That's far more familiar where Rayner is concerned, and Florian knows exactly how to respond to it.  
  
"Well, we can't have that, can we?" he says. "Besmirching the hallowed halls of the _royal hunting lodge_ with my foul presence wouldn't do at all. I will, of course, scour myself forthwith."  
  
Rayner scowls, then pivots on his heel and looks poised to stalk away before Florian realises the glaring flaw in his plan.  
  
"You'll have to untie me first," he says. "I fear my ablutions may be somewhat perfunctory if you don't. Not to mention—"  
  
Rayner wheels on him, teeth bared and knife upraised, and for a terrified, muddle-headed and tongue-tied moment, Florian fears he might be intending to slit his throat.  
  
But he doesn't; he applies the edge of the blade to the ropes wrapped around Florian's arms and ankles, and with a quick flick of his wrist, they fall away.  
  
"Don't think this means you're going to be able to get away with any funny business," Rayner says warningly. "Charlie's stationed at the back of the tent, I'll be waiting for you out front, and none of our soldiers are more than a few feet away. You won't be able to slip past us, so don't even bother to think about trying." He pats Florian's shoulder in a show of sham sympathy. "We have you trapped now, High Mage. If I was the one in your place, I would have taken my chances out on the road."


	5. Chapter 5

Having met by chance on the street outside and decided to pool their courage together, Florian's three other classmates burst through the College's front door en masse, falling over one another and breathless with high-pitched, nervous giggling.

They stumbled into bows and made their introductions: Rhys and Olivia from Mancunium, Angwen from Deva, all of them eleven and all awestruck by Jack when Master Hainsworth introduced him to them in turn. Not just as Jack or Rayner but making sure to inform them that he was: "Our youngest student in hundreds of years!"

She left Florian to shift for himself, so he felt free to give them the new, more fitting name he had shared with Jack rather than the one that was listed in the College's records of enrolment. Master Hainsworth did not correct him, nor did she look surprised to hear it, but then Florian had heard that highly skilled mages could read the truths written in a person's heart just as easily as they did words upon a page. Likely, she had known of his decision before he'd even consciously made it.

Jack offered his bag of sweets around again and everyone took one, even Florian, though he only pretended to put it in his mouth and then hid it in his coat pocket when no-one was looking. He didn't want to stand out, or appear ungracious in front of a wider audience, but still did not dare to eat one of the vile, filthy things. Mother said that dirt caused all sorts of nasty diseases, and he didn't want to waste his first days as a student emptying his stomach into a chamber pot or huddled in bed, wracked with a fever.

Master Hainsworth dispensed with her pear drop in a couple of sharp crunching bites before beckoning for them to follow her on a tour of the building, which, at first, brought only fresh disappointment to Florian.

The eight near-identical classrooms that made up the bulk of the first floor were utilitarian, with plain white walls, polished floorboards, and neat rows of desks set facing a blackboard – not a single magical artefact, crystal ball, or articulated skeleton of a fantastical beast on display in any of them – and wouldn't have looked out of place in the mundane school Florian used to attend.

But, from there, she took them to a library which couldn't possibly exist. It was unfathomably tall, rising six storeys, each one densely crowded with over-stuffed bookcases and the last surmounted by a stained-glass dome picturing a red Cambrian dragon in flight which bled a vast pool of ruddy light across the parquet floor.

"Why can't you see this tower from the outside?" Olivia asked, which Florian was grateful for. He'd been wondering the same thing himself but hadn't wanted Master Hainsworth to think him ignorant.

"When the Romans occupied Britannia, they tried to destroy all the schools for mages because they hate and fear magic," Master Hainsworth said. "In order to protect the College, the Masters at the time wove powerful illusions around it so that it blended in with the other buildings and its true purpose would remain hidden."

"But we saw off the Romans ages ago," Jack said. He swung his foot at a patch of empty air, picturing himself, Florian could only assume, applying boot leather to the arse of some imaginary invading Roman soldier. "Why's it still invisible?"

Master Hainsworth laughed. "You will come to discover during your studies here that there is a certain amount of theatricality inherent in being a mage. We do so like to maintain an air of mystery. Now" – she clapped her hands together, bringing them all to attention – "let's continue."

They trooped back down the narrow spiral staircase running through the centre of the library and then out into the grounds situated behind the main school building. They were far more extensive than the small plot of land upon which the College appeared to sit could possibly account for, stretching out over at least two acres of gently undulating grass, at the far extent of which stood a small copse of oak trees and beside them, another square stone building with small, arched windows set high on the walls, half-hidden by the low-hanging eaves of the roof.

Inside, there was a cavernous hall, with scorched flagstones underfoot and complex runes carved into the walls, meant, Master Hainsworth informed them, to absorb stray magic and keep them safe as they practiced casting the spells they would learn in their lessons.

Next, they visited the dining hall – a long, narrow room crowded with long, narrow tables in which the heavy stench of overcooked meat hung miasmatic in the air – where they were fed a hearty bowl of underseasoned beef stew and dense suet dumplings before Master Hainsworth led Florian, Jack, and Rhys to the final destination on their tour: the room they were to share for at least the next ten years.

It was much the same size as Florian's own bedroom at home, but there were three beds crammed inside it, lined up along the longest wall with a wide dresser set at the head of each, separating them one from another. On the opposite wall, arranged beneath mullioned windows, were three desks – plain, bulky, and clearly ancient, their tops covered in faded ink stains and the deeply carved names of long-ago former students.

Master Hainsworth left them with the direction to unpack and settle themselves in for the night, and Florian and Rhys exchanged uneasy glances after her departure, neither willing to be the first to stake a claim on one of the beds. On first sight, they all looked indistinguishable from one another, but there was no telling if one of their identical brown quilts might conceal a sagging mattress or stained sheets beneath.

Jack marched straight up to the middle bed, wrenched open the top drawer of the dresser beside it, and upended his bag over it, pouring out a tangled mountain of clothing. He shoved the drawer closed with a nonchalant knock of his hip, seemingly uncaring that several straggling shirt sleeves were caught trailing out afterwards, and then fell onto the bed, lying spread-eagled on his back.

Presumably inspired by his example, Rhys strode out with great, newfound confidence to the bed on Jack's right and emptied his own bag in the same haphazard fashion.

Florian put his bag down on the leftmost bed that was now his by default and began carefully unpacking it: undergarments in the top drawer of the dresser, shirts in the middle, and trousers in the bottom, all methodically folded just as Mother had taught him.

Rhys murmured something to Jack, too quietly for Florian to be able to discern the words. They both laughed. Florian tried his best to ignore them.

From disparaging Florian's efforts at behaving like a civilised human being, Jack and Rhys moved on to discussing the homes and families they had temporarily left behind. Or, rather, Rhys played enthralled and silent audience whilst Jack nattered on and on about his mother and father, little brother, and the cows, sheep, and horses they raised on what sounded very much like a farm to Florian. He had to wonder why Jack had lied to him about that. There was nothing to be ashamed of in being a farmer; Mother said that they were the 'salt of the earth'.

By the time Florian finished his unpacking, Rhys had perched himself on the end of Jack's bed and Jack had rolled onto his side, presenting his back to Florian, both engrossed in their conversation and each other.

Florian couldn't think of a graceful way of breaking into the tight little circle they had formed, so he sat cross-legged on his own bed and read the storybook he'd brought from home until Master Hainsworth poked her head round the door to tell them it was time to put out their lamps and go to sleep.

* * *

Florian's first lesson the next morning was Rune Casting, taught by Master Armstrong: a pale, skinny young man who stammered, stared down at his shoes, and ran his hands compulsively back through his washed-out blond hair as he introduced himself to their class. Once he started talking about runes, though, his bulbous green eyes shone with a passion that bordered on zealotry.

"Magic is worked by will and by words," he told them. "Will to give it power, and words to give it form. And the most fundamental kind of words are runes. They can be written anywhere and with anything: a pen on paper, a chisel upon rock, or even traced in the air with finger."

Using his neatest, most meticulous hand, Florian dutifully wrote that down in the beautiful leather-bound notebook Grandmama had given him as a reward for being accepted into the College. He didn't make a single blot.

"Does anyone know any runes?" Master Armstrong continued.

Florian's mother's gardener was a magic-user, though not a particularly skilled or powerful one, and he painted a rune on the trunks of their apple trees every winter, to protect them from frost. If he closed his eyes, Florian could picture the shape of it – smooth and arcing, curling in on itself like a snail's shell – but the details remained fuzzy and indistinct no matter how hard he tried to remember. He stayed silent, not wanting to make a fool of himself by getting them wrong.

Olivia, Rhys and Angwen all slumped down in their seats to avoid Master Armstrong's notice, but Jack stuck his hand straight up in the air.

"I do, sir," he said, when Master Armstrong looked at him questioningly.

"Really?" Master Armstrong sounded surprised, but he handed Jack a piece of chalk all the same. "Do you think you could draw it?"

Jack nodded, walked with a brisk, fearless step to the blackboard, and, without hesitation, drew a complicated, swirling pattern there. 

"The rune for fire," Master Armstrong breathed, clearly impressed. "We don't usually teach that until the third year here, but" – he traced the chalk lines with a long, bony finger – "you've drawn it perfectly. Do you know any more?"

Jack nodded again and then, at Master Armstrong's urging, drew them out alongside the fire rune. Ten in all, though Florian got the impression that he stopped there not because he'd run out of runes he knew, but rather space on the blackboard.

Master Armstrong looked at him with the sort of worshipful awe that Florian had only ever seen hitherto on the faces of the temple monks when they gazed upon the Silent God's altar.

Florian began to hate Jack then, just a little.

* * *

After Rune Casting, Florian's next lesson was Natural Philosophy.

He had expected to learn nothing but magic at the College, but Master Hainsworth had reassured Mother – who was far less enthused by that prospect than Florian himself had been – that he would receive in addition the same education that any noble might at one of their fancy public schools, so he could comport himself properly in their company – or even at court – when the time came.

Florian's old school had taught him only the three Rs and a smattering of history and geography, so he was as much at sea when it came to Natural Philosophy as he had been about Rune Casting.

Thankfully, it seemed as though Jack was in the same position in this, at least. He didn't raise his hand once.

* * *

After Natural Philosophy came Gallian, then, following a luncheon of cold meats, cheese, and slightly stale bread, Mathematics and Art.

The final lesson of the day was Spellcasting, given by Master Lewis in the practice hall at the edge of the College's grounds.

There, she conjured up a globe of light with an insouciant sweep of her arm and a hushed word of Old Brittonic. It was one of the simplest spells in a magic-user's repertoire; Master Hainsworth had taught Florian how to cast it in a matter of moments during his testing, so she could judge his capacity for working magic.

"In addition to words and will, there is also movement," Master Lewis explained. "It is possible to change magic's texture" – she crooked her fingers and the orb's light pulsed – "its strength" – the orb expanded with a flick of her wrist – "and its nuances" – when she bent her elbow, the orb changed colour from yellow to red – "by redirecting its flow around the caster's body."

She reminded them all how to create an orb themselves and then tasked them with changing their appearance somehow.

"Focus on how your magic feels inside you," she said. "And then imagine that feeling moving from your core, to your arm, and then to the very tips of your fingers."

As directed, Florian concentrated on the fizz and tingle static sensation that filled his belly and chest – the one Master Hainsworth had said was his magic – and tried to force it to rise towards his arm. But he could push it no further than his shoulder, and no matter how vigorously he twitched his fingers and waved his arm about every which way, his orb remained unchanged.

Jack's orb grew so large it almost touched the ceiling, and Master Lewis gazed on him with the same reverence as Master Armstrong had displayed.

When they all filed out of the hall at the end of class, Rhys drew close to Jack and asked him, "How come you know how to do all of this stuff already? Have you had magic lessons before?"

"Naw," Jack said. "My da's interested in magic, even though he can't use it himself, and he's got loads of books about it. I just read them and practised the spells by myself."

Which Florian considered very unfair, and it was no wonder that he seemed to be so far advanced in his studies compared to the rest of them. Florian's mother – most parents, he would imagine – thought magic too dangerous for children to dabble in without the supervision of experts in the art.

He thought it unlikely that Jack could have taught himself a great deal on his own, just from books, however, and the clear and obvious advantage he held over the rest of them was bound to fade in time. 

But, for the rest of that week, Jack continued to excel in the same way in every single subject, whilst Florian, in stark, humiliating contrast, struggled to master even their rudiments. By the end of those first five days, he had only just managed to turn his light orb from pale yellow to light brown. Jack could make his flash all the colours of the rainbow.

On Templeday, he returned home to attend a temple service and dine on something a little more palatable than the bland stews the College cooks persisted in serving for every evening meal. 

Over their dishes of roast veal and oyster pie, Mother asked him about his lessons and, to start, Florian gave her a dispassionate report on all he had learnt. This pretence of sangfroid was taxing to maintain, though, and he could not sustain it even for the full duration of their main course. By the time their dessert of plum pudding and custard arrived, his complaints about Jack's infuriating competence had grown long and were shading towards vituperative.

Mother listened to him in silence until he paused in his criticisms for long enough to allow interjection, and then said: "If he can learn magic from books, so can you. You should take full advantage of that library you mentioned and read as much as you can. Hard work and determination can remedy almost all deficiencies in raw talent, I've found."

With that advice in mind, Florian's first stop when he returned to the College after dinner was the library, where he sought out books not only about runes, alchemy and spellcasting, but all his other, more prosaic subjects, too. His arms trembled under the weight of the gathered pile, and the librarian, Master Taylor, delighted over the size of it, telling him that he'd never seen a first year so dedicated to their studies before.

And Florian read those books – and many more besides – in every spare moment he could find: at the dinner table after meals; in the corridors between classes; late at night after lights out, with his blankets pulled over his head and a magical orb hovering at his shoulder whilst Jack and Rhys whispered to each other in the dark; and on sunny afternoons when his classmates ran around the grounds, shrieking and hitting each other with sticks, playing at being knights and Battle Mages.

In the examinations at the end of their first year, Florian came top in Gallian, History and High Imperial. Olivia beat him by the narrowest of margins in Natural Philosophy and Mathematics.

Jack received the highest marks in every other subject.

It was the same in their second year, and the third, and the fourth.


	6. Chapter 6

Far from being the palace Rayner insists on calling it, Prince Caerwyn's current residence was once nothing more than a hunting lodge.

Though, as it was a _royal_ hunting lodge, it is both larger and far grander than most mansion houses owned by more minor members of the nobility.

The main building was built by a Gallian tribune of the Roman Imperial army, who was gifted the parcel of land on which it stands in recognition of his bravery during the invasion of Britannia. It was designed to reproduce the Lutetian _palais imperial_ in miniature, with fine fluted columns, glistening white marble facade, and a magnificent gilded central dome. By all accounts, it is a near-perfect replica, and would probably be quite beautiful had it been situated anywhere else.

Set beneath the perpetually grey, dour skies of Britannia, amid the barren, heathered and windswept hills just outside Calcaria, it looks incongruous, a strange interloper from more salubrious climes, and thus somehow far uglier than the plain, pragmatic buildings that are indigenous to the area.

After the Romans were expelled from the island, and the tribune's descendants sent packing, the then newly reinstated King of Northern Britannia had claimed the house as his own and thereafter decamped his entire court there for a month or two during the hunting season each year. 

Every king and queen subsequent to him had made their own additions and improvements to the lodge - a new wing here, a hedge maze there – and the building itself is now a sprawling hodgepodge living monument to two centuries of shifting architectural styles. To the front of the lodge lie extensive formal gardens enclosed by a high red-brick wall and, to the rear, acres of grazing land abutting a dense oak forest near bursting at its seams with deer, wild pigs, pheasants and all manner of other creatures which, Florian is given to understand, it is considered great sport to shoot at and attempt to kill.

When Prince Caerwyn left Eboracum a decade ago to make his home in the lodge, in what his brother – Florian's patron, Crown Prince Dafydd – refers to as a fit of pique, he took with him only a small household staff, his destrier and a brood mare, and a pack of hunting dogs.

Now, it is teeming with life. The gardens outside and corridors within are throng with liveried servants, frock-coated nobles, and uniformed soldiers all marching about the place in service of matters of great import and urgency, judging by the speed of their steps and determined expressions. 

Like a river flowing around some great, immovable boulder, the crowds part before Rayner as he strides through them and then reform behind him, where they then crash into Florian, who is following on close behind with Fox playing sentinel beside him. He feels like a piece of driftwood in contrast – buffeted about by this tide of humanity, and thoroughly, insultingly unimportant and inconsequential to them. No-one spares him so much as a glance, never mind an apology for barging into him and almost knocking him off his feet.

Rayner leads them deeper into the bowels of the building until they fetch up at a set of double doors, their panels covered with an elaborate carved design of intertwined vines and broad-petalled flowers. After sending Fox on her way with a nod, he smooths out the worst of the creases from his trousers, straightens the lapels of his coat, and runs his fingers through his tousled hair in a vain attempt to bring it into some semblance of order.

When he then knocks at the doors, he is answered immediately by a voice calling out, "Enter."

Rayner pushes the doors open with one hand and grabs hold of Florian's elbow with the other, dragging him along as they step into what appears to be an office. 

Florian's own office at the royal palace is crammed full to overflowing with the collection of thaumaturgical writings he has amassed during his tenure as a titled mage, and every flat surface that doesn't play host to a book or scroll is instead home to the sort of magical artefact he had always wished that the College possessed when he was a child – crystal balls, scrying bowls, and even the articulated skeleton of what was purported to be a baby manticore, though Florian has long-suspected that it is actually a forgery made from cat and bird bones, skilfully pieced together.

Though this room is lined by bookcases, they are all empty, and the only other furniture in evidence otherwise is a broad mahogany desk, at which Prince Caerwyn is seated, poring over a map.

Florian has seen the man just once before, when he came to watch the tests that marked the end of a student's time at the College. It was an unprecedented occurrence, according to Master Hainsworth, but the year Florian and Rayner graduated, the entire royal family was in attendance to play witness: King Llewellyn and Queen Alexandra, Princes Dafydd and Caerwyn, and their younger sister, Princess Bethan.

Prince Caerwyn is of an age with Florian and Rayner, and had recently turned nineteen then, just like them, but he'd had the air of a much older man: stern, silent, and serious.

He still looks more mature than his years, and if Florian didn't know better, he would have thought him approaching middle age. His black hair is greying at the temples and there are harsh lines bracketing his mouth and feathering at the corners of his eyes. When he stands up from his chair and walks towards Rayner, though, he moves with an easy, youthful fluidity despite the heavily muscled bulk of his body.

Rayner bows low to him, bending his knee. "Your Highness," he says, in a soft, deferent tone that Florian has never heard him use before.

"High Mage," Prince Caerwyn replies in kind, clasping Rayner's shoulder in welcome. When his curling fingers brush against the side of Rayner's neck, Rayner's breath leaves him in a shuddering rush and his eyelids flutter closed.

_Interesting_.

Several years ago, there had been a rumour circulating court that Prince Caerwyn had taken Rayner as a lover. Prince Dafydd had laughingly dismissed it at the time, insisting that his stuffy, buttoned-up brother would never waste his time on something as frivolous as a romantic affair, but seeing them together now, how Rayner leans into his prince's touch until it's withdrawn, Florian is inclined to believe that that particular morsel of gossip may not have been as farfetched as it had first appeared.

"So, this is my brother's mage?" Prince Caerwyn says, stepping back from Rayner and giving Florian a glancing look-over. He inclines his head in greeting. "High Mage De Courcy."

A bow feels akin to treason, but the response is so engrained within Florian after so long at court that his body moves into one on reflex. _He_ owes this man no deference, though, so his subsequent, "Your Highness," is both curt and grudgingly spoken in compensation.

"I don't want to risk sparking a war – not yet – so we'll have to return him to Dafydd," Prince Caerwyn says to Rayner. A faint smile touches his thin lips. "For a price."

"How much do you think he'd be willing to pay for his High Mage?" Rayner asks.

"Not as much as I would be," Prince Caerwyn says, which causes Rayner to break out his own smile, small and bashful. "And certainly not as much as he's worth. My brother does not understand the true value of things, and his coffers probably wouldn't stretch that far, anyway. No doubt he still pisses his allowance away against a wall every month like he always has, throwing his balls and parties."

Their disagreements over Prince Dafydd's so-called 'extravagances' are what had sent Prince Caerwyn fleeing from the capital and his father's palace in the first place by all accounts. 'He would rather us all live like monks and subsist on nothing more than dry bread and water,' Prince Dafydd told Florian once. He didn't understand that the balls and parties he so derided were essential in strengthening the ties between the Crown Prince and his nobles, thus ensuring their loyalty.

"Actually," Florian begins, but Rayner's grip on his elbow tightens, fingers digging deep against the bone, and the rest of his words are lost to a gasp of pain.

"I may have to ask for something other than money," Prince Caerwyn continues as though he hadn't been interrupted. "I'll have to think on it some more."

Prince Caerwyn returns to his desk, which seems to signal that their audience is at an end, but though he gives every appearance of becoming engrossed in studying his map once more, he asks Florian, "How was my father faring when you last saw him, High Mage De Courcy?"

"As well as can be expected under the circumstances, Your Highness," Florian says.

Dead to the world, for the most part, but not quite dead in truth yet.

"Good," Prince Caerwyn says, and he looks relieved, but Florian knows that he had not asked the question out of concern for his father's health. He has not visited once since King Llewellyn took ill, whilst his brother sits vigil at his bedside near every day.

Princes Caerwyn and Dafydd have been at each other's throats for years now, and though their claws are kept carefully sheathed for the most part, when their father breathes his last, their long-simmering feud will almost certainly explode into violence. Into civil war, and Prince Caerwyn will think himself a saviour, come to rescue the people from the clutches of a brother he believes to be a profligate wastrel who would drive their kingdom into bankruptcy if he became king.

They might squabble and scuffle to protect the unmarked borders that surround the territories they have staked out as their own – Prince Caerwyn's centred around this lodge; Prince Dafydd's around Eboracum – but neither will mount an outright attack on the other whilst their father still lives. As Prince Caerwyn told Rayner, they dare not risk starting a war before then, and so Florian trusts that he will, in time, be returned his own prince, just as he trusts that Prince Dafydd will pay whatever price Prince Caerwyn demands in order to secure his release, no matter what his brother might believe.

"Take him to his quarters," Prince Caerwyn tells Rayner, "and then return to me here. There's something else I wish to discuss with you."

Given the blush that spreads across Rayner's cheeks, Florian suspects that the subject under consideration will be the contents of each other's smallclothes. 

Rayner escorts Florian from the office to the topmost room of a four-storey-tall square tower which had been built – according to Rayner, who takes it upon himself to act as a tour guide as they journey through the lodge – under the auspices of Queen Angharad the Third a century ago. It had proven too heavy for the ground beneath it to support and has been slowly sinking ever since, leaning ever more westward with each passing year.

"I hope you don't get seasick," Rayner says. "The whole tower has a tendency to sway in high winds."

Florian's never been on a boat and wouldn't know, but tells Rayner, "I don't," regardless, thus robbing the man of the petty joy he'd likely have felt had he answered in the affirmative.

"Glad to hear it," Rayner says, even though he sounds anything but. Florian thinks he detects a hint of disappointment lurking in the gruffly spoken words. "You should enjoy your stay, then."

Glancing around the quarters Rayner ushers him into, Florian very much doubts that. The room is poky, dark, and stinks of damp and disuse. The bed is narrow, the two armchairs arranged in front of the cold hearth look dusty, and the one small bookcase is almost empty, containing only a tiny selection of mouldering and dogeared books.

Florian sighs despondently. "So, this is to be my gaol cell."

"Your gaol cell?" Rayner echoes derisively. "This is one of the best guest rooms! It has everything you could possibly need." He swings one arm out in an extravagant gesture that encompasses all the paltry, ramshackle furnishings. "There's a_ private bathroom_, for fuck's sake." The door at the far side of the room is shoved open to reveal a tiled alcove replete with a basin, commode and soaking tub. "Even _I_ don't have one of those; I have to share with Charlie. And the view from the window…"

Rayner trails into silence when he peers out of it, and he grimaces. "Well, right now, there's a gardener pissing on the compost heap, but usually the view's lovely. You're overlooking the orchard here."

When Florian eventually submits to the increasingly fervent summons of Rayner's beckoning hand and moves to join him at the window, the micturating gardener has moved on, leaving the view of the orchard unspoiled. It is indeed lovely; the trees are strong and tall, dusted white with a scattering of early blossoms. 

They are also a long way down. Florian had made vague plans of effecting his escape in the same way as the protagonist of his favourite childhood book did, abseiling her way to freedom from her tower prison with the aid of a rope made from knotted sheets. His head spins at the thought now, even with his feet planted firm on solid ground, so he dispiritedly abandons the idea. 

Escape will be far easier – and far safer – in a few days' time when his magic has returned to him. Then, he'll be able to soar up and away from the window like a bird or float down from it like a feather. 

A tap at the room's open door announces Fox's arrival, and Rayner wheels away from the window, grinning when he sees what she's carrying. Florian's heart, however, sinks when he catches sight of them.

Two slim iron cuffs engraved with runes - magic-deflecting runes, identical to those carved into the walls of the College's practice hall. Florian has read about such contraptions, and how they actively repel all magic, making it impossible for a mage to replenish their internal stores of it when wearing them. There will be no need for shackles whilst he's held prisoner here.

Rayner slaps the vile things on Florian's wrists and locks them with a rusty key, which he drops into the inside pocket of his coat afterwards.

"Well," he says, offering Florian a mocking bow, "I'll leave you to get settled in, High Mage."

Then he walks away, taking all hope Florian might have of escape along with him.


	7. Chapter 7

* * *

The summer of Florian's fourteenth year was remarkably clement, and he spent more of his school holidays out of doors than was his usual habit as a consequence. 

Not due to his own design or preference, but because Mother insisted upon it, arguing that fresh air and exercise would be the perfect cure for the 'chalky complexion' and 'dull eyes' she claimed he'd been inflicted with since his return home from College.

Every morning, Florian dressed in a plain shirt and loose trousers rather than his usual frock coat and breeches, packed a sandwich and apple in his knapsack, donned a pair of sturdy walking boots and, over breakfast, talked enthusiastically about his plans to hike to the ruins of the Reaver's temple on Micklethwaite Road, around the entire circumference of the city walls, or some other suitably far distant destination.

Then, he would walk out of the front door with a brisk, eager stride, and march – just in case Mother was watching him from a window – all the way to the end of their road, whereupon he would make a swift left turn down the ginnel that ran between Mr Robinson and Miss Atkinson's houses, hop over the fence at the end, and then follow the narrow, hardpacked dirt path that lead to a park only two streets away.

Fresh air he was willing to concede, but exercise was a step to far, even to appease Mother. 

The park was a small one, bordered on three sides by busy roads and on the fourth by a row of terraced houses, and far from pretty. The other parks in the city boasted carefully cultivated flowerbeds, duckponds, follies, and fountains, but this one appeared to be nothing more than a patch of earth that had been left behind after everything else had been built around it and subsequently abandoned to return to nature.

The grass was overgrown, the only flowers were native blooms of the sort Mother's gardener uprooted from their own garden and called weeds, and the one tree that grew there was spindly and half-dead.

It did, however, have two benches and very few visitors, so, despite the constant procession of carriages and pedestrians streaming past, Florian found it surprisingly tranquil and the perfect place to read.

For two weeks, Florian enjoyed both this new routine and Mother's proud assertions of an evening that the colour was returning to his cheeks, but at the beginning of the third week, Rayner appeared out of nowhere, plonked himself down on the bench next to Florian and ruined everything.

"Hello, De Courcy," he said, because he'd managed to learn at least some manners in their etiquette lessons over the past three years.

"Hello, Rayner," Florian returned, and then he stared fixedly down at his book in the hopes that feigning complete absorption in its pages would make it obvious to Rayner that he wanted him to leave him alone and piss off back to whence he came, wherever that may be.

Because he had no idea what he should say now, or how he should act. He and Rayner seldom talked at school; beyond the occasional argument that ensued when Rayner's enormous, filthy, teetering pile of belongings threatened to topple over and encroach onto Florian's side of their shared room, or the odd request to pass the salt at the dinner, they scarcely even acknowledged each other's existence.

And, during the holidays, Florian liked to imagine he didn't exist, full stop. He could forget Rayner and Rhys' snide comments, their mocking laughter, and the Masters' constant fawning veneration of Rayner's _talents_ and be free of them for six glorious weeks. Rayner's intrusion into this cheerfully constructed ignorance was incredibly jarring.

But Rayner, boorish and self-centred as ever, didn't take the hint. He shuffled along the bench until he was sitting so close to Florian that their shoulders pressed together, and then craned his neck to look at Florian's book.

"You're reading about Battle Mages?" he said, squinting down at the woodcut battle scene printed on the open page. "I've always thought those robes they wore were ridiculous. Completely impractical for fighting. They'd just get tangled up around your legs and you'd end up on your arse, most likely."

Florian thought the robes looked magnificent, but not wanting to inspire a debate, he remained silent. 

For a long while, Rayner didn't say anything either, but he certainly wasn't _silent_. He hummed through his nose, swung his legs back and forth, scuffing his already tatty boots against the grass, and even whistled a snatch of their school song, loud, jarring, and off-key. 

It was so distracting that Florian found it impossible to concentrate on even pretending to read, and he was on the verge of making his apologies and returning home to face Mother's disappointment over his prematurely curtailed constitutional, when Rayner said, "What happened to your hair?"

The question was such an odd one that it shocked Florian into abandoning the safe harbour of his book and looking at Rayner directly for the first time since he sat down beside him.

"What?" he asked.

"Your hair," Rayner repeated, smiling broadly at him. He patted his shoulders and then the crown of his head in demonstration. "It's all gone."

"I had it cut," Florian said slowly, still baffled about this sudden strange turn in what passed for their conversation. 

Mother had tried to dissuade him against the decision, but, in that at least, he had held firm. She'd mourned the loss of his flowing chestnut locks, but Florian had been wanting to get rid of them for years, ever since it had become unfashionable to wear one's hair long. He'd thought the new style suited him well but had to wonder now if Rayner thought it unbecoming and the observation was one born of derision.

If it was, then Rayner didn't have a leg to stand on. His hair had also been cut short, cropped so close to his head that Florian could see his pale scalp beneath.

"It looks as though you have, too," he said.

"Naw, I didn't." Rayner chuckled. "My little brother was practising casting spells and set it on fire. It was mostly _burnt off_. I wanted to just wait for it to grow back, but Ma thought it was an eyesore, so she told Da he had to take me to a barber whilst we're in town and get the rest shaved off. 

"We were just on our way back from there, and Da ran into one of his farmer friends. They got to talking about irrigation, which is just as boring as it sounds, so I decided to sneak away for a bit. I bet he hasn't even noticed I'm gone!

"But he probably will if I don't get back sharpish, so…" Rayner sprang to his feet and sketched a sloppy bow in Florian's general direction. "I should shift my arse. Maybe I'll see you again tomorrow?"

"What?" Florian asked, flummoxed again. "Why?"

"Me and Da have been staying over there" – Rayner waved his hand vaguely towards the other side of the street – "for the past week. I can see the park from my room. You come here every day to read, don't you?"

"No," Florian said, and it might have been a lie then and there, but it would be the truth tomorrow.

For the remainder of his holidays, he made the long trek halfway across town to the big park on Moorside Road to do his reading.

* * *

On Florian's first day back at school, his first port of call was – as it always was – the library.

At the tail end of his second year, he'd discovered the perfect spot for studying – tucked behind a set of shelves containing the life's work of an extremely prolific author with a dry, prolix writing style and a near-religious fervour for the history of household crockery.

As no-one ever approached that particular stack, it was quiet and peaceful, and for two years, Florian had been able to study for hours at a time there, undisturbed.

He had barely made it through a page this time when an unfamiliar voice called out, "Ey up! You're Florian, right?"

He looked up to see an equally unfamiliar child staring at him from the opposite side of the table. A short, almost spherical child, with wide, watery blue eyes and a dripping nose.

"Yes," Florian said cautiously.

"I'm Charlie," the child said. "Jack's brother."

He wiped his nose with the back of his hand and then held it out for Florian to shake. Florian declined the honour, but Charlie grinned at him all the same.

"What are you reading?" he asked.

"A book," Florian replied.

"Is it for school?" 

"Yes."

"What's it about?" asked Charlie, who was apparently incapable of understanding that someone giving only monosyllabic answers to their questions had no wish to converse further, just like his brother.

"Runes," Florian said, if only because he couldn't tell Charlie to 'fuck off' as he'd very much prefer to. Not only would it be unconscionably rude, especially when directed towards an eleven-year-old boy, but Master Taylor would be aghast if he happened to overhear him using such vulgarity in the library, and therefore likely to revoke the privilege that he'd only just granted of checking twelve books out at time rather than a paltry, inadequate ten .

"Jack says you're really good at Runes," Charlie said.

"He does?" Florian asked, gratified despite himself.

"Well, not as good as him, of course," Charlie said. "But pretty good, all the same!"

"Of course," Florian said, dully unsurprised by this clarification. The only person better pleased by Rayner's accomplishments than their adoring Masters was bound to be Rayner himself. Arrogant sod.

"He tried to teach me how to draw them over the summer, but I was really bad at it," Charlie said. "I got my fire rune all wrong and it blew up in his face!"

Charlie expounded on his failures at great length and in excruciating detail, barely even pausing for breath. His round cheeks turned a flustered, unhealthy shade of red from the lack of it, and though Florian entertained the brief, shameful hope that his air might run out entirely and he'd then pass out, but he just kept talking and talking and talking until Rayner's voice rang out strident across the library.

"Oi, Charlie! I've been looking for you!"

Florian had never been happy to see Rayner before, and he still wasn't; he was simply relieved, because Charlie immediately shut up.

"What are you doing here?" Rayner said when he drew near to Florian's table, frowning down at his brother. "You're supposed to be on the tour. Master Hainsworth's been having kittens, thinking you'd got lost."

"I wasn't lost," Charlie said. "I've been here the whole time, talking to Florian."

"Is he bothering you, De Courcy?" Rayner asked.

"Yes," Florian said, annoyed enough by Charlie's ceaseless blather to be blunt, but both brothers laughed as though he was only teasing them and making a joke.

Rayner even reached out and took hold of the back of the chair next to Florian's, as though he were considering pulling it out from under the table taking a seat there uninvited as he had done in the park that summer. Thankfully, he thought better of it and instead grabbed hold of Charlie's sleeve.

"Come on, short-arse," he said. "Let's get you back to Master Hainsworth."

He strode away without a word of farewell, dragging his brother after him, but Charlie twisted in his grip so he could turn and wave over his shoulder at Florian.

"See you later, Florian!" he called out.

"Goodbye," Florian replied, not wanting to offer him any encouragement which might hint at the desire for future meetings of the same sort.

* * *

The second day of term dawned bright, crisp, and clear.

Whilst his summer's occupations had not imbued Florian with a newfound love of walking, they had birthed an appreciation for reading al fresco. After lunch, he went out into the grounds, spread a blanket beside the copse of trees by the practice hall, and settled down there with his latest book.

Rayner, Angwen, and Rhys were playing football with some of the older students nearby and Florian had assumed they were so busily engaged in their game that they hadn't noticed his arrival, but Rayner broke away from the group and jogged towards him a moment later.

"Do you want to play?" he asked.

Yet another odd question. Rayner hadn't invited Florian to join in with any of his games since the start of their first year, when Florian refused to play the part of a dragon whom the faux-knight Rayner would defeat by dint of poking him in the ribs with his stick-sword.

"Not really," he said. "It's far too hot to be running around."

Rayner appeared puzzled, his brow deeply creased, as if he couldn't begin to conceive of such a thing, even though he was rubicund and panting, and his clothes were soaked through with sweat, clinging close to his skin in a way that looked distinctly uncomfortable to Florian.

Eventually, he shrugged off his confusion and said, "If you change your mind…"

"Then I know where you are," Florian said, and he presumed that would be an end to it, but Rayner lingered there for a long while afterwards, endlessly shifting his weight from foot to foot, his mouth gaping open like a landed fish, as though there was something else he wished to say or do.

He continued in the same, gormless fashion until the sound of footsteps announced the approach of another distraction come to keep Florian from his book: Olivia and, inexplicably trailing in her wake, Charlie.

The sight of them served to jolt Rayner out of his peculiar inertial rut, and he asked Olivia, "Do you fancy a game of football with us, Livvie? We're down a player and De Courcy here won't budge."

Olivia shook her head, but Charlie piped up with: "I'll play with you, Jack."

"Naw, you're too wee, short-arse," Rayner said. "You'd be crushed."

"You could always join us instead, Jack," Olivia suggested, to Florian's horror. "Get some extra revision in."

Fortunately, a look of equal horror flashed across Rayner's face at the prospect. "Not a chance," he said. Despite his claimed love of studying magic when they were younger, Florian had never seen him read anything other than his tawdry adventure tales at school. His continued run of high marks was a perpetual mystery. "Fucking hell, it's only the second day. We haven't even been given any homework yet!

"Right, if I haven't got any takers for the game, I'll just…"

He jogged away without completing his sentence, and Olivia watched him go with narrowed eyes.

"That was weird," she said. "Surely he knows by now that neither of us has the first idea how to play football."

Florian didn't care what Rayner's motivations were, he was just glad to be rid of him, and ignored the observation in favour of shuffling a little further along the blanket to give Olivia enough room to sit down.

She was softly spoken and studious, and thus always a welcome reading companion to him. Her own companion was decidedly less so.

"What are you doing here?" he asked Charlie sharply. Olivia dug her elbow into his side, as she always did when she though he was – in her words – 'being a bit of a twat', so Florian appended a smile to the question, in an effort to soften it.

"I've come to read with you," Charlie said, holding aloft the storybook he was carrying. Florian recognised it as one of his own childhood favourites: the tale of a princess who was captured by her wicked uncle who had designs on her mother's throne and had to make a daring escape from her tower prison in order to save the queen's life.

Florian was just as tempted to tell him to fuck off as he had been the previous day, but before he had chance to, Olivia said, "If you can keep quiet and sit still, then you're welcome to. Florian's like a bear with a sore head if you disturb his reading."

"I can," Charlie said firmly, squeezing himself onto the trailing corner of the blanket next to Olivia.

Florian expected Charlie to become bored in short order and go wandering off to play with his classmates or watch his brother's football game. But he didn't. He sat still, and read, and was quiet all the way through the rest of their lunchbreak.

He did so most days when the weather was fine enough for Florian to spread out a blanket and study outside throughout the rest of the time they spent at school together.


	8. Chapter 8

Every morning, Rayner visits Florian at the same time to give him the same update about their princes' efforts towards agreeing the terms of his release: 'Negotiations still ongoing'.

And every morning before he leaves again, Florian has a fresh complaint to make about his accommodations, which are even more incommodious than they'd first appeared. The window rattled incessantly and let in the wind; his bedding was fusty and insufficient to guard against the night's chill; and the few books his gaol cell had been furnished with were not only in a deplorable condition – mottled with mould and missing a good portion of their pages – but also mostly concerned with military history, a subject Florian had never had much interest in beyond the role of Battle Mages within it and consequently found unspeakably dull.

Each afternoon, Rayner would send someone to ostensibly remedy those complaints, but their solutions were half-arsed and inadequate, giving Florian the impression that Rayner was not treating them with due care and attention and, at best, was simply humouring him to get him to shut up.

The carpenter who came to inspect the window poked and prodded at the frame with a hammer, sucked air through his teeth, and then told Florian that there would be no fixing it without a glazier, and as they didn't have one on staff, it would likely be a fortnight before they could bring someone suitable in from Calcaria or Eboracum. And the extra blankets that he was provided with were motheaten and stinking, made from wool so itchy that Florian scratched himself raw the one night he was foolish enough to put them on his bed.

The books Rayner brings him are little better than the ones he already had, even though they are more to his tastes: treatises on Natural Philosophy, romance novels – Lewis' _Forty Nights in Gallia_ included – and volumes of magical lore.

"I've read all these before," he says, rifling through the pile.

"I'm not about to go raiding His Highness' library for you, so that's the best I could do on short notice," Rayner says. "You'll just have to like it or lump it, I'm afraid."

Florian 'lumps it' as best he can, but liking is beyond him. He picks up Lemaire's _Colette_, thinking it might be the most entertaining as he's only read it the once previously, unlike the others, but by the end of the first chapter he's remembered each twist and turn of the later ones, which renders the murder mystery introduced in the second a great deal less compelling.

Still, he's not got anything better to do with his time, so he persists in his reading until the arrival of his lunch provides a most welcome distraction from it. 

The meal itself – a bowl of leek and potato soup with the consistency of glue – is also far too bland to capture his attention, but the maid who delivered it is a pleasant, gregarious woman who is always happy to chat with him as she works.

Whilst she tidies the room and Florian chokes down spoonfuls of soup, they talk of the weather (frightful), her work (never-ending), and the recent visitors to the lodge (more numerous than Florian ever would have guessed). Lord Sorsby is the latest noble to seek audience with Prince Caerwyn; a man whom Prince Dafydd considers amongst his closest allies.

Once the maid has departed again, Florian sits at the room's rickety desk and pens letter to His Highness, letting him know of Sorsby's treachery. Rayner won't let him send it, most likely, but he feels he has to do _something_.

Afterwards, his thoughts are still too unsettled to allow him to concentrate on reading, so instead he moves to the window.

The orchard is indeed lovely, but its attractions have palled significantly over the past few days, as – aside from the gardener who uses the compost heap as his own private bathroom – no-one ever passes any time there to enliven the view.

Today, however, there is a phalanx of soldiers marching up and down the wide gravelled path which runs alongside the orchard, seemingly engaged in practicing drills of some sort. If Florian _were_ interested in military matters, he could likely gather some useful information from their movements to pass on to Prince Dafydd, but it just looks like pointless sword-rattling to him.

Disheartened, he works out his frustrations by chronicling his woes in a new letter; one addressed to his mother. It runs to two pages, both crossed.

The process is cathartic enough that he can return to his book thereafter and reads on through Colette's discovery of the murder weapon and Guard Captain Bisset's investigations of her family's country estate until a knock at the door announces that the maid has returned with his dinner.

He sets _Colette_ aside and calls out, "Come in."

But it is Charlie rather than the maid who enters, carrying a tray bearing a covered plate and, wondrously, a bottle of brandy and glasses.

"Ey up, High Mage De Courcy," he says, putting the tray down on top of the chest of drawers beside Florian's bed with a flourish. "Thought you might be getting a bit peckish."

The leek and potato soup hadn't been very filling and Florian's stomach rumbles at the thought of eating, but when he lifts the dish's cover and peeks beneath, he immediately loses his appetite. He quickly drops the cover again and pushes the plate away.

"Not peckish enough to eat _that_," he says, grimacing.

"What's wrong with it?" Charlie asks. "It's just meat and two veg. You used to eat it all the time at school."

"And it wasn't any better then," Florian says. "Meat and two veg shouldn't be _grey_, Charlie; especially when some of those vegetables are carrots. They must have been on the boil for _hours_."

"I suppose you're used to far finer food nowadays," Charlie says.

Prince Dafydd employs a Gallian chef, a master of his art, who is of the opinion that meat and two veg, stews, and suet puddings are 'vile Brittonic swill' that he would not stoop to prepare in his kitchens. Prior to his imprisonment, Florian hadn't been subjected to them in years. 

"I am," he says.

"You're probably used to far finer booze too, so I'll—"

He reaches out as though to pick up the brandy bottle and whisk it away, but Florian grabs hold of his wrist, holds him still. He hasn't drunk a drop of alcohol in over a week and is certain that even the cheapest rotgut would taste ambrosial after such deprivation.

"No need to be so hasty," he says. "I'm sure I'll be able to choke some down. It's only polite after you've gone to the trouble of bringing it all this way."

Charlie laughs and pours a measure of brandy into the glasses. It's only as he's doing so that Florian notices that there are just two of them.

"Won't your Second be joining us?" he asks. And then, realising too that he's never actually seen Charlie's Second, not even in the field when he would have the most need for one, he adds: "You do have one, don't you?"

"Aye, of course," Charlie says, "but Rob's… Well, he's indisposed at the moment."

Florian raises an eyebrow questioningly. Charlie blushes, drops his head, and becomes inordinately interested in the cutlery on Florian's dinner tray, staring down at it intently.

"We all got a bit drunk a few weeks ago," he says, still avoiding Florian's eyes. "And Rob was so raddled that he challenged to Fox to a wrestling match out in the formal gardens."

"And she trounced him soundly," Florian guesses.

"Naw; she probably would have done, but before they could even start he tripped over his own feet and fell into the ha-ha. Broke his leg in three places. His Highness' doctor says he'll be out of action for at least a month or two, and there's no-one else here that's trained up to be a Second, so I'm having to do without for the time being."

"I thought Prince Caerwyn disapproved of intemperance," Florian says. "His brother told me that he never touches alcohol."

"He'd ban it from the palace entirely if he could," Charlie agrees. "It might have escaped your notice, but there's not much else to do around here, though. He'd have a riot on his hands if he tried, so he puts up with it."

As Charlie regales him with more tales of his Second's past exploits, Florian just listens and sips on his – execrable – brandy, the warmth of the alcohol and the soothing cadences of Charlie's familiar voice combining to make him feel more at ease than he's been since he set out from the royal palace on his ill-fated border patrol.

He never would have admitted as much when they were younger, but Charlie can be quite relaxing company. Florian never has to think up his own stories to share or wonder what to say to him, because Charlie can talk enough for two people and hold up both sides of a conversation on his own quite easily.

By the time Florian has finished his first glass of brandy, his appetite has grown large enough – and his taste buds are deadened enough – to finally face the plate Charlie had brought him.

Halfway through the second glass, his head starts spinning.

Halfway through the third, his tongue is lubricated sufficiently to ask the question that has been niggling at him for the past four days, off and on.

"Are your brother and Prince Caerwyn lovers?" 

"What?" Charlie blinks at him rapidly, clearly surprised by the interjection, which, to be fair, he has every right to be, as it was wholly unconnected to the conversation he'd been having with himself about the last hunt he'd ridden out on. "Who told you that?"

"I heard rumours of it at court," Florian says. 

"Really? I can't imagine who'd be spreading those, but…" Charlie shrugs. "They're right. Or, at least, they _were_. They ended it a few months back. Couldn't tell you why; Jack won't say a word about it. You know what he's like."

"Not really," Florian says.

"I suppose not." Charlie chuckles. "Well, Jack's weirdly prim and proper about some things; very private about his romantic affairs."

Florian is glad to hear it, and only wished he'd had the same compunctions when he was younger. It would have spared Florian a great deal of embarrassment at school, if so.

"Anyway, he's had an endless procession of blokes after him since then – practically has to fend them off with his sword sometimes. I reckon the title must act like some kind of aphrodisiac. Is it the same for you at your court?"

Not even slightly. As Florian fears that Charlie may relay everything he says back to Rayner, however, he just smiles in what he hopes is a suitably enigmatic fashion and says, "Something like that."

"Thought it might be," Charlie says, grinning. "So, are you seeing anyone special at the moment."

"Not right now. I don't have the time for such things; I'm far too busy with my work," Florian says, which isn't exactly a lie, though it is only half of a truth.

"Just like me, then," Charlie says. "Or, at least, that's what I tell people. 'Far too busy with my work', rather than admitting—"

Charlie's pocket watch chimes, interrupting him mid-word. He flips it open and curses when he looks at its face.

"Fuck, how did it get to be so late. I'm going to have to love you and leave you, Florian. I wanted to check in on Rob, and Dr Axley won't even let me poke my head into his sickroom past eight o'clock."

He makes hurried promises to visit Florian again the next day – a far brighter prospect now than it would have been in their schooldays – grabs up the tray and Florian's dirty dish, and then dashes away.

He neglects to take the bottle with him, however. Florian's fourth glass of brandy makes his reread of _Colette_ vastly more entertaining than it had been earlier in the day.

The fifth sends him straight to sleep, uncaring of the wind whistling around the ill-fitting windowpane or the chill seeping down through his thoroughly inadequate blankets.


	9. Chapter 9

Centuries ago, the Moon Festival had been a solemn affair; a time of quiet thanksgiving for the bounty of the harvest just passed, and earnest prayers for the strength and fortitude to face the cold, dark days of winter yet to come.

Young couples who fancied themselves in love would also mark the event by formalising their courtships: the year-long ritualised romantic journey they would embark upon together in order to discover whether they rubbed along well enough to get married at the end of it.

Nowadays, gourds and wheat sheaves had been replaced by parkin and cinder toffee, religious devotion by drunken caterwauling and fireworks, but the romance remained, albeit of a much more fleeting nature than courtship. The festival was widely held as the ideal occasion for a person to get closer to whatever lad or lass had caught their eye, given that the brisk autumnal weather provided a perfect opportunity for cuddling close beside a bonfire.

As the rising of the harvest moon drew near, many people's thoughts became preoccupied by matters of the heart. Florian was no exception. 

The long separation enforced by their summer holiday had made him realise just how fond he'd become of Olivia of late. He'd missed her terribly and had spent far too long ruminating on her charms when he really should have been getting ahead with his reading in preparation for the upcoming school year.  
  
For the first two weeks of term, he was equally distracted by deliberating over how best to ask her to accompany him to the festival. Should he perhaps give her a bunch of flowers first? Ask her to take a moonlit stroll about the school grounds? Would an off-the-cuff declaration of interest be fitting? Sound heartfelt and sincere? Or would he instead get tongue-tied, stumble over his words and end up sounding like an idiot instead, as he so often did when he was nervous and put on the spot unprepared? Perhaps it would be better to write a speech ahead of time, so he could be sure to know what to say? Maybe even a poem, penned in her praise?

By the morning of the festival, he had come to no firm conclusions on any of those questions, and was forced by necessity to blurt out his invitation as they walked from the dining hall together after dinner – at the last possible moment before the opportunity passed him by entirely.

He could tell from Olivia's expression – faintly pitying, but mostly apologetic – what her answer would be even before she said, "I can't, Florian. I'm sorry, but I'm already going with someone else." She blushed and looked down at her shoes. "With Thomas Howe."

"Thomas Howe?" Florian repeated, astonished. Howe was a loud, boisterous boy in the year above theirs, who was far more interested in football than his studies. About as unalike to Olivia as it was possible to be. "But you've always said that his face looks like a boiled ham."

"And it does," Olivia said, "but he's also…." She faltered for a moment, clearly struggling unable to articulate what she found so alluring about Howe that it allowed her to see beyond his supposed resemblance to luncheon meat. "He's very tall. And he has lovely shoulders. Nice and broad."

Though neither were qualities Florian himself possessed, he was surprised to find that her words did not sting as much as he would have expected them to, given the many, happy hours he had spent imagining the beautifully appointed library they might have stocked together if they were one day to marry.

So, when she offered her apologies again, he could reply, "It's all right," without resorting to some false show of magnanimity, but instead with something approaching true acceptance. 

"You will still go to the festival, though, won't you?" Olivia asked. "Even if it's not with me? I wouldn't want you to miss out."

"I can go with Mother and Grandmama," Florian said.

Just as he had every year to date, though the idea was not exactly an appealing one, especially when compared to what could have been. Both Mother and Grandmama hated how crowded and noisy the festival was, and their celebrations were restricted to taking a turn around Fairbanks Square to look at the lanterns, eating an early supper of lentil soup and seed bread from one of the stalls, and then retiring home by eight o'clock at the latest, to ensure they were safely tucked up inside before the firework display began.

Florian had been rather hoping for a slightly livelier night than the usual, and at least seeing a few more of the sights before he settled in for a spot of cuddling by the bonfire.

"Or you could go with Jack," Olivia suggested, because she had taken temporary leave of her senses, apparently.

"I am _not_ asking Rayner to go to the fucking Moon Festival with me," Florian said, thoroughly scandalised. "I can't believe you'd—"

"I didn't mean like that," Olivia hastened to clarify. "He's going with Rhys and Angwen, and a couple of girls from Thomas' year. They're taking Charlie with them too, so you'd have someone to talk to, at least."

"I'm sure Rayner won't want me there," Florian said. "We're hardly bosom friends, Livvie."

"Yes, I know," Olivia said, rolling her eyes a little. "You have mentioned it a time or two. But he said everyone's invited to tag along with him if they want. Not, 'everyone but Florian'. _Everyone_."

"He didn't say anything to me about it."

"You never talk to him, Flos. I doubt he had the chance. Look, 'the more the merrier' were his exact words. _I'm_ sure he'd been fine if you went with them." Olivia shrugged. "It could be fun."

"I'll think about it," Florian said.

And he fully intended to do so; to carefully weigh up the pros and cons, and make a measured decision on whether experiencing all the festival had to offer was worth being subjected to Rhys and Rayner for yet another night when he was otherwise guaranteed to be shot of them for once.

But as soon as he and Olivia parted ways, heading towards their respective bedrooms, Charlie pounced on Florian and issued the invitation that his brother had hitherto neglected to extend. He seemed so excited at the thought of him joining them that Florian felt it would have been churlish to refuse.

He was the only one who appeared happy that Florian would be one of their number, though. When Florian joined the small group gathering in the College's front hallway on the stroke of seven o'clock, Angwen and the other two girls offered him nothing more than thin smiles, and Rhys gave Florian's Temple-best frock coat, trousers, and spit-shined shoes one of his typical scornful once-overs. 

Rayner completely ignored him.

Charlie, in contrast, clung hard to Florian's arm throughout their long walk to Fairbanks Square, babbling about the games he was going to play and the sweets he was going to eat all the while.

When they reached the lantern-festooned square, Florian fully expected the group to quickly disperse, leaving him alone to babysit Charlie for the rest of the night. Though Rhys and Rayner did disappear almost immediately, swallowed up into the milling crowds, Rayner was quick to return. He was carrying two tall clay mugs, one of which he shoved unceremoniously into Florian's free hand.

Florian inspected the cloudy liquid the mug contained with great suspicion. It didn't look like the apple juice Mother normally bought for him to drink at the festival. 

"What is it?" he asked.

"Cider," Rayner said.

"I can't drink this!" Florian protested.

"Why not?" Rayner's brow furrowed deep. "Is the mug dirty? I could get you another…."

"It's _alcohol_," Florian said. "It stunts your growth."

Mother said he shouldn't indulge in any until he came of age, just in case.

"You'll be reet," Rayner said dismissively. "A drop of cider's not going to harm you. 'Sides, getting a bit raddled is practically mandatory at the Moon Festival."

And Florian did want to sample more of the festival than he'd been able to before. He took a wary sip of the cider.

It tasted vile: sharp and musky as though it was on the turn or had even spoilt already. He wanted to spit it out, but as that would have been inexcusably vulgar, he had no choice but to swallow it and hope for the best. It burnt his gullet on the way down, in a way that felt as though it might be permanently scarring, but settled warmly in his stomach and pleasantly heated his entire body through, despite the frosty nip in the air.

"See, it isn't so bad, is it?" Rayner said, smiling. He took a hefty swig from his own mug, and then asked, "What do you fancy doing first?"

"The puppet show," Charlie said, firm and determined.

"Naw, we're not going to watch a sodding puppet show again, short-arse." Rayner groaned. "They always do that same fucking story, with the crocodile stealing the sausages. You already know how it ends. Why don't we—"

"Oi, Jack," Rhys bellowed from a nearby stall, gesticulating wildly towards Rayner through a small gap in the crowd. "You've got to come and look at this!"

Rayner sighed heavily. "Right; I'd better go and see what he wants otherwise I'll never hear the end of it. I'll just be a minute."

Charlie insisted they wait at least ten minutes before he finally accepted that Rayner wasn't likely to be coming back any time soon, no matter what he'd promised. He then dragged Florian to watch the puppet show that his brother had spurned. Quite rightfully, it transpired, as the story was utterly nonsensical, comprising little more than the main character hitting other puppets over the head with a stick for a variety of spurious reasons.

Florian found that the cider helped make it all infinitely more bearable, and he was disappointed when he reached the bottom of the mug. He paid for a refill in the beer tent. Drinking that second mug roused his appetite into voracious life and also made him very cavalier about the prospect of rotting his teeth. He bought a huge slice of parkin and bag of cinder toffee for Charlie and him to share. He ate most of both himself; it was quite possibly the most delicious food he had ever tasted.

His third mug of cider made everything look a little blurry. He didn't remember anything after he finished his fourth until he came to an indeterminate span of time later, slumped against the wall outside his bedroom.

Some kind passing stranger hauled him up from the floor and helped him to bed. He thanked them by vomiting on their shoes. 

His return to consciousness the next morning was accompanied by a pounding head, a mouth which tasted like the inside of a chamber pot, and the vague recollection that his late-night saviour hadn't been a stranger at all, but Rayner, which meant apologies would probably be in order at some point.

Thankfully, Rayner and Rhys were nowhere to be seen, so he could postpone that particular humiliation until such time as he felt more equal to it – and a little less likely to decorate Rayner's footwear again in the process – but hard on the heels of that small portion of succour came the appalling realisation that he'd woken alone in the room because it was Templeday. 

His roommates always rose at the crack of dawn on Templeday, ostensibly so that they could attend the earliest possible service in honour of whatever gods it was they professed to worship, though, in reality, neither of them wanted to waste a single second of their one school-free day in bed that they could instead waste mooching around Eboracum, throwing away their coppers buying cakes and small beer, or playing petty games of chance.

Florian had never missed a temple service. Not once. Not when he was a tiny baby, dandled on his mother's knee, or even when he had the grippe, and had to be sick both before the service started and the very second it ended, and sit with one hand clapped securely over his mouth throughout.

He dutifully got out of bed. The entire room pitched and rolled around him, his stomach followed suit, and he only just managed to stagger to his desk before his knees gave way. He scribbled a hasty note on the nearest bit of paper to hand:

> _Sorry, can't make it to temple. Deathly ill. _
> 
> _Your loving son, &c, &c._

He folded the paper in half, wrote something approximating Mother's address on the outside, and slipped it beneath the closed bedroom door in the hopes that a passing Master might spot it in the corridor and drop it into the next post.

He then retreated to his bed again, curled up into the foetal position, and spent the rest of the day nauseous and shivering hard, as what felt as though it must be the icy finger of death trailed up and down his spine.

It was, to date, the most wretched day he had ever experienced at school, and at the time, he had naïvely believed that his year couldn't possibly get any worse from there.

But it turned out to represent only the first step of a steady downward trend, and the main perpetrator of that descent into the murky doldrums that rounded out Florian's fifth year at the College was Rhys.

Florian had never much cared for him – not since their first day at school when he'd so obviously and irrevocably thrown his lot in with Rayner – and Rhys had made it abundantly clear that the feeling was mutual. But, in the past, he'd restricted his enmity to the odd snide remark or smirk, and otherwise avoided talking to Florian just as assiduously as Rayner ever did.

But, since the Moon Festival, his snide remarks had grown louder and more numerous, and his smirks had become more pointed. He laughed whenever Florian got an answer wrong in class or miscast one of his spells – which, granted, didn't happen too often anymore – and, most annoyingly of all, Florian's belongings began to go missing from their shared room.

"I'm sure it's him," Florian complained to Olivia as they made their now daily lunchtime pilgrimage out into the grounds, no matter the weather, in order to watch Thomas Howe dash about, chasing after a football. "He always looks unbearably smug whenever I can't find my pen. I've gone through five already this month. Five!"

"I wouldn’t put it past him," Olivia said. "He is a bit of an arse."

Charlie nodded vigorously. "He's a complete wanker. I went to your room the other day to see Jack, and he told me to 'fuck off' and slammed the door in my face!"

"Florian tells you to fuck off all the time, Charlie," Olivia countered.

"Aye, but Florian doesn't really mean it," Charlie said staunchly, beaming at Florian. Florian didn't have the heart to disagree.

"I know Rhys has always been fairly awful, but I swear he's getting even worse," Florian said. "What do you think I should do? Should I start stealing his pens in retaliation?"

"I'd ignore him, just like you always have," Olivia said, shrugging. "He'll probably get bored of it all if you don't react to it."

So, Florian tried to rise above it, tried to overlook Rhys' smug, hateful face, discount whatever vulgarities he was currently spewing, and pretended not to notice quite how many coppers he was frittering away on replacing his stationery week on week. 

Rhys' behaviour never became any less tiresome or irritating, but it didn't escalate either, and as the end of the summer term approached, it did seem as though he had finally grown bored of attempting to nettle Florian and the insults, the laughter, and the thefts declined precipitously in frequency. 

Florian was relieved, honestly believing that his life might then return to its usual, humdrum keel, but then, with the end in sight, and almost within grasp, his year – quite unexpectedly – reached its absolute nadir. 

The last two weeks of the summer term were always given over to reviewing everything they had learnt over the course of the past ten months, in preparation for their exams, and it was the only time Florian ever felt able to relax in class, to allow his attention to drift a little instead of attending to the Masters' every word. _He_ kept up with his lessons, did all the recommended background reading unlike _some_, and had no need of the extra revision sessions.

Master Armstrong had called Rayner up to the front of the class to draw out some rune or other on the blackboard and, for the first time in Florian's recollection, Rayner fucked it up. Made a complete hash of it, in fact; each one of the lines pointing in the wrong direction or curling where they should have been straight.

And maybe it was Rayner's abashed smile when Master Armstrong corrected him that was Florian's downfall. Or maybe the way Rayner's eyes caught the light when he threw back his head and laughed at his own incompetence. Or it might even have been the Silent God's doing, belatedly punishing Florian for that one temple service he'd skipped out on.

In the end, it didn't much matter what caused it, because the result was the same: in that horrifying, benighted moment, Florian looked at Rayner and thought he was beautiful.

He hurriedly turned his head aside and breathed slow and deep. It didn't mean anything, thinking that. Mother said that lots of people had strange, unwelcome thoughts pop into their mind at times, and just because he'd had the sudden urge to strip off in temple – or indeed, kiss Rayner – it didn't mean he was in any danger of actually doing it.

He risked another cautious glance towards Rayner, hoping against hope that the urge might have passed. It hadn't. He screwed his eyes closed and didn't open them again until Master Armstrong wrapped up the lesson and dismissed them.

In the corridor outside the classroom, Florian grabbed hold of Olivia's arm and dragged her into the nearest quiet corner where they weren't likely to be disturbed as he unburdened himself of his dreadful knowledge.

"What is it, Flos?" she asked, sounding worried enough that Florian knew that he must look as sickened as he felt. "What's wrong?"

"Something horrible happened to me just now, in class. I was watching Rayner scribble nonsense on the blackboard and I thought he looked" – Florian couldn't say 'beautiful'; he just couldn't, not even to Olivia – "quite handsome."

"Oh." Olivia looked bemused. "Is that it?"

"What do you mean, 'is that it?'." Florian could scarcely believe what he was hearing. He'd expected at least a modicum of concern or understanding from his_ best friend_ at this trying time. "Isn't that enough."

"Well, Jack _is_ handsome," Olivia said. "Probably the best-looking boy in school. Had you honestly never noticed before?"

"No." Florian hadn't paid much attention to Rayner's face in the past, beyond noting that it had the usual complement of eyes, nose, and mouth. If happened to be lacking any of that number one day, he likely would have noticed, but no more than that. "I hadn't."

Olivia's eyes softened. "Are you having some kind of awakening?" she asked, patting Florian's arm sympathetically. "Master Hainsworth said—"

"That we're bound to have some strange new ideas every now and again at our age, with our humours all in a flux," Florian finished for her. Master Hainsworth's awkward lecture of the previous year was indelibly seared into his brain, unfortunately. "No, I'm not having an _awakening_, Livvie. I've got nothing to awaken _to_. I used to think Master Armstrong was quite fetching until he got that new haircut that makes him look like a bedraggled sheepdog. It's not _that_, it's… It's just… Rayner. I can't stand him!"

"I know, but I don't think it has to mean anything," Olivia said. "Look at me; I actually thought Thomas Howe was attractive for a while there, but I got over it. It was just a temporary lapse of judgement. A moment of madness."

"Which went on for two months," Florian pointed out, but Olivia ignored him.

"No doubt Jack will do something to annoy you in, oh, the next ten minutes or so, and you'll wonder what you ever saw in him," she said. "I wouldn't worry about it. I'm sure it won't last."

She sounded so certain that Florian walked away from their conversation with fresh optimism, convinced she would be proven right. 

But, for the next fortnight, he continued to horrify himself by staring dreamily at Rayner in class, smiling whenever he laughed, and wanting to kiss him at every inopportune moment in between. He even started thinking that Rayner's habit of leaving balled-up discarded socks strewn across their room was a charmingly eccentric peccadillo instead of the gross assault against good hygiene that it was in actuality, and despaired of ever being able to extricate himself from the deplorable state of affairs he had inadvertently been mired in.

Then, with no apparent effort on his part, Rayner aced all his exams and was top of their class once more. 

For the first time in five years, Florian was glad for that, as the burgeoning fonder feelings he'd been harbouring for Rayner were thus destroyed in one fell swoop, never to trouble him again.


	10. Chapter 10

Charlie now delivers Florian's dinner every day rather than the maid, and each time he visits, he brings wine for them to drink together whilst they sit by the fire and Charlie reminisces about their time at school with surprising fondness.

When he departs, he leaves the remainder of the bottle behind for Florian to enjoy in his absence.

_Enjoy_ is perhaps too strong a word to describe Florian's experience of the wine Charlie chooses to share with him – which invariably tastes as though it would be better suited to stripping paint or cleaning silverware – but he does appreciate the gift of it, all the same. When seen through the blurred haze of mild inebriation, the view from the window is rendered charming once more, and the thick tome he has recently embarked upon reading seems far more engaging than any dry work on the proper classification of plant species could otherwise ever hope to be.

Last night, Charlie presented him with a bottle of gin so devastatingly strong that the mere scent of it brought tears to Florian's eyes, and it would perhaps have been sensible to ration it out, to sip on it slowly, for the sake of keeping something approaching a clear head. But, for the sake of his stomach, he has no choice but to throw it back in a single swallow, so that it spends as little time as possible in contact with his tongue. It still feels as though it might sear through the inside of his mouth, but at least there's no chance of him tasting it that way.

He has dispatched with two glasses in the same fashion, and is just about to tackle a third, when Rayner suddenly materialises at his side in a sparkling flash of pale green, magical light. The flurry of heated air he displaces with his appearance rifles through the pages of the book laid open on Florian's lap, effectively losing his place in it. As he hasn't had the faculties necessary to absorb a single word of it in at least the past half-hour of reading, it doesn't much matter, but Rayner's thoughtlessness annoys him solely on principle.

"Hello, Rayner," he says coolly. "How wonderful it is to see you! I do so love it when people drop by unannounced. And without doing me the courtesy of landing a single knock upon my door beforehand? Even better."

If his words were slurred at all, it was only very slightly and hardly deserving of the censorious glare Rayner levels upon him, which is reminiscent of the one Master Taylor subjected Florian to that time he had been clumsy enough as to spill tea on a book he had borrowed from the library.

"Are you drunk?" Rayner asks, sounding like a scandalised nun. "Where in the hells did you get alcohol from?"

"None of your business," Florian says, not wanting to risk getting Charlie into trouble and thereby cutting off his supply of it.

Rayner steps closer to Florian's chair, and leans in over his shoulder to get a better look at the bottle he's holding. 

"Charlie," he quickly concludes, despite Florian's attempt at subterfuge. "He's the only person I know who'd want to pass time with you _and_ has such bad tastes in spirits. I don't know how he can drink that shit."

"Since when are you so particular?" Florian asks. "You and Rhys used to get wankered on that awful rum that costs two coppers a bottle every Templeday. Though, I suppose you might be abstemious nowadays, given your prince's thoughts on the matter."

"No, I still drink," Rayner says. "Just better stuff than that, and not in the middle of the day. It isn't even two o'clock yet."

"I've got nothing better to do, and no-one needs me for anything," Florian says. "What does it matter if I indulge myself a little?"

"I know we're not exactly treating you like one but, technically, you _are_ a prisoner," Rayner says. "You shouldn't be indulging yourself _at all_. I'll just take this…"

He snatches the bottle out of Florian's loose grasp, and Florian lunges up from his seat to take it back on pure reflex. He misses, fingers clasping empty on nothing but air, and his desperate forward momentum sends him stumbling to his knees. Even though he braces his hands against the floorboards as firmly as he can, they seem to ripple and tilt beneath him, and he can't find enough purchase against them to push himself upright again. 

He expects Rayner to laugh at him – and he'd likely deserve it, for once – but, for a long while, he remains silent, though Florian is sure he can feel the steady weight of his eyes resting upon him, bearing down on his bowed back.

Then, Rayner inhales sharply, takes another step forward, and hooks his hands under Florian's armpits, pulling him up to his feet in a dizzying rush. 

"You need to sleep this off, High Mage," he says, his head bent close enough to Florian's ear that his warm breath stirs the fine, curling hair at Florian's temple. "Prince Caerwyn wants you to dine with him this evening."

Against Florian's protestations, he drags him to the bed and deposits him upon it with less care and consideration than he'd give a sack full of potatoes. Florian's head bounces hard off one of the wafer-thin pillows, and the ageing, lumpy mattress sags down low under his heft. Even when he's exhausted at the end of the day, Florian struggles to get comfortable enough on the bed to sleep; he doubts he'll get a moment's rest on it now.

"Did you order me a new mattress like I asked?" he says. "This one isn't fit for sleeping on."

"No, I didn't order you a new bloody mattress," Rayner says through what sounds to be closely gritted teeth. "Look, if the accommodations here really aren't up to your exacting standards, we do have actual gaol cells you could be moved to. I can see if there's one free, if you like."

He stomps away before Florian has chance to reply, returning a moment later with a glass brimming with water, which he slams down onto the small table at Florian's bedside.

"Before you ask: no, we don't have any ice," he says. "I will go and fetch you some willow bark pills from the apothecary, though. You'll probably need them. I wouldn't want you throwing up over His Highness' table."

Florian can think of little that would be more mortifying than that, except, perhaps having to dine with royalty clad in his current attire. 

"Could you get me some more clothes, too?" he asks, struggling up into a sitting position. It's very off-putting trying to talk to Rayner when he's looming so tall over him. 

"What's wrong with what you're wearing?" Rayner asks.

On the second day of his imprisonment, Rayner had brought Florian more of his brother's cast-offs, to replace the shapeless, timeworn shirt and trousers he had had no choice but to wear on their journey to the lodge. They were clearly of a much higher quality, well-stitched and made of far finer fabric, but equally unflattering, albeit in an entirely different way.

Although they appeared to be similarly proportioned at a casual glance, Florian had been surprised to discover upon donning his clothes that he must not only have a couple of inches of height on Charlie, but outweigh him by a couple of stones, too. 

The sleeves of the shirt stop just short of his wrists, the trouser legs just short of his ankles, and both cling obscenely close to his body. The seat of the trousers is already fraying – one sudden move made in the wrong direction, and they'll likely split.

"I can't sit at a prince's table dressed in _this_." Florian sweeps his hand down, gesturing towards the entire, hideous outfit. "It would be an insult."

"Oh," Rayner says flatly. "And what would you prefer to wear? A frock coat and breeches, I imagine."

His fingers twitch, curling in towards his palms. A tiny, sober part of Florian's brain finds that a worrying sight; the rest, liberally pickled in cheap gin, doesn't give a shit. To the contrary, he welcomes this small sign of Rayner's agitation, delighting in needling him enough to cause him to react. He was always so composed when they were younger, acting as though nothing Florian said or did could ever affect him. Acting as though Florian didn't even exist, for the most part.

"That sounds perfect," he says.

"Shall I bring you a freshly starched shirt, too?" Rayner asks. "And an embroidered waistcoat to complete the ensemble?"

"Please." Florian nods. "And I could do with some new boots."

The ones Rayner lent him are indeed far too big. He has to wear three pairs of socks to keep them from falling off his feet.

"Of course you could. And is there anything else I can get you whilst I'm about it?"

The question isn't a sincere one; the terse tone of Rayner's voice and the flinty cast of his eyes make that abundantly clear. Florian should probably cut his losses and stay silent, but his mouth opens again seemingly of its own volition and he can't hope to stop the words from spilling out. He's not usually troubled by inappropriate loquaciousness – either drunk or sober – but it appears that he'd been cursed with that particular affliction in the very moment he met up with Rayner again.

"Some better soap," he says. "That coal tar bilge stinks, and it's very drying."

"Right."

"And some proper hot water," Florian continues, warming to the subject in earnest. He has been keeping a list, after all, and Rayner normally doesn't stay long enough to listen to it in its entirety. "The taps in the bathroom only seem to run to tepid, at best. 

"If you could do something about the appalling state of the food they insist on feeding me, that would be appreciated, and—"

"Enough," Rayner barks out. "I've heard enough. I can't believe you…" He pinches the bridge of his nose tight between his thumb and forefinger, and his shoulders rise and fall sharply as he takes a deep breath. "Why the hell are you being like this, Edmund?"

Florian's heart feels to stop dead in his chest. "What did you call me?" he asks shakily.

"Your name." There's a definite growl in Rayner's voice now, and his face is flushed a deep, uniform crimson from chin to brow. "Sodding _Florian_? Where the fuck did you get that from? Did you make it up on the spot when we first met?"

"It was my middle name!"

"No it wasn't," Rayner says, cold and implacable. "Your middle name was George. Why are you always putting on all these airs and graces? Looking down on people, and pretending to be something you're not?

"Just because your great-great-grandfather or whoever was some sort of posh nob in Gallia a couple of centuries ago, it doesn't make you a toff. Your ma's a _doctor_, Edmund Blenkinsop."

Posh nob? Toff? The man is such a hypocrite.

"So is yours," Florian snarls. "And your father's a fucking _Earl_! 

"Just because your parents let you and your brother run wild as children, it doesn't make you salt of the earth, Viscount Jonathan Edward Augustin Rayner."

Rayner's hands clench into the fists the twitching of his fingers had been threatening earlier, and Florian fears that he might actually hit him this time. But, although Rayner does surge towards him as though he has that end in mind, he stops himself short when he reaches the bed and instead sits down heavily on the edge of the mattress, only just missing Florian's feet in the process. 

He hangs his head and gives a short, mirthless laugh. "How long have you known?" he asks.

"Since I took up my position at the palace," Florian says. "A mere commoner being chosen to serve the Crown Prince over the son and heir of the Earl of Cataractonium? It was the talk of the court for months after my appointment. 

"I even met your father there once."

"Really?" Rayner says. "Da never mentioned that. Then again, he never really talks about his time at court. He hates it there; avoids going for as long as the king will allow him to get away with."

"Which, I presume, is the reason I've only met him once in eleven years."

"Probably," Rayner says. "The title has never sat right with him; he wasn't meant to be Earl and he wasn't brought up to it. And neither was I. Not properly.

"You're right, he did let Charlie and me run pretty wild when we were kids, just like he did when he was the same age. He used to have three older brothers then, so he was… pretty much surplus to requirements, and my grandfather never paid him much mind.

"Besides, our estate's in the arse-end of nowhere – not another viscount, baron or even a knight for miles around. Charlie and I grew up playing with the children of Da's tenant farmers instead of the nobility, so I guess we kind of forgot we weren't the same as them, just living in a much bigger house."

"Is that why you told everyone at school that you lived on a farm?" Florian asks.

"I did no such thing," Rayner protests.

"You did," Florian insists. "I distinctly remember you telling Rhys on our first day that your family raised cows, and sheep, and horses."

"Which we do," Rayner says. "On our estate. I never lied to anyone, High Mage; I just didn't tell the whole truth. I didn't want anyone bowing and scraping to me. I wanted to be treated like everyone else."

"There was no chance of that, was there?" Florian says. "Not when you were the youngest student to attend the College in over three hundred years."

It's embarrassing, how bitter Florian unwittingly still sounds when he says that. How bitter he still feels, even more so.

"There was nothing much I could do about that," Rayner says, shrugging, as though it's a matter of no great consequence at all. "I know you thought I enjoyed all the attention, but, really, I couldn't stand it. Anyway, it all came to nothing in the end, didn't it?"

He sounds a little bitter now himself, and Florian thrills to hear that sour note in his voice. Rayner had acted thoroughly unconcerned when Prince Dafydd chose Florian ahead of him to join his household, but Florian had always suspected he might harbour some resentment about having to settle for second best for once.

"What about you?" Rayner stares down at his hands, which are now resting, lax and open-palmed, against his thighs. "Why did _you_ want to be someone you weren't at school?"

Because he had been a desperately unhappy, lonely child, who had been keen to leave all the disappointments of being Edmund Blenkinsop behind. From the minute he learnt he had been accepted into the College, he had imagined a new future for himself of the sort that he had believed would be far beyond his reach before. A future where he was Florian De Courcy – which seemed like a name more suited to his ambitions – and High Mage to the King, wise and powerful and beloved by his entire court.

He's not living in that future yet – not quite, and in some respects, it seems doubtful he ever will – but close enough. It isn't anything like he thought it would be, though. There are fresh disappointments to being Florian De Courcy that he had never accounted for in his youthful dreams. 

"How did you find out my old name?" he asks, sidestepping Rayner's question as he has no wish to answer it. 

"My da's obsessed with genealogy," Rayner says, acquiescently following Florian down this new conversational byway. "And after I told him about—" 

He cuts himself off abruptly midword, and his eyebrows scrunch down low, as though he's annoyed with himself for even beginning to speak it. Florian tries to work out what it might have been from the shape of Rayner's lips, but it remains frustratingly opaque.

Rayner gives his head a quick shake, and then begins again with, "Well, he recognised your surname and went digging in your family tree, De Courcy to Blenkinsop. It turns out that great-great-grandfather of yours was a vicomte, and he left Gallia under a dark cloud."

"He was involved in some great scandal, according to Mother," Florian says. "She's very cagey about the details, though. She says they might be too much for me to hear, and she'll tell me when I'm older."

"So, they're too much for the delicate ears of a thirty-year-old?" Rayner laughs. "Fucking hell, they must be good. If you ever do find out what happened, you'll have to tell me."

"Knowing what my mother considers scandalous, you're bound to be disappointed," Florian warns him.

Rayner turns to look at him at over his shoulder, his lips lightly curved and parting as though he's on the verge of saying something. He clearly thinks better of whatever it might have been, though, and instead springs hurriedly to his feet.

"I should get going," he says. "I've got a tonne of stuff that needs doing before this dinner tonight."

He strides off with great gusto, but halfway to the door he pauses, then swivels around on his heel to face Florian again.

"I'll see if I can get hold of some better clothes and whatnot for you, too," he says.

"You will?" Florian says, surprised.

"Aye. I might have the luxury of being able to not give a shit about that sort of thing, but you don't," Rayner says. "You wouldn't feel comfortable meeting His Highness otherwise, would you?"

The last time Rayner had seemed to be offering some sort of kindness, it turned out to an insult in disguise, so Florian is careful not to sound too eager or too grateful when he says, "Thank you, Rayner."

"I wouldn't get your hopes up too high; I can't promise you much," Rayner says, and he sounds apologetic, which suggests that the offer truly had been a genuine one. "Either with the clothes, or with the meal. We're on short rations, so the food won't be any better than anything else you've eaten whilst you've been here."

"I'm sure it will be lovely," Florian says, and he means that genuinely, too.

If he's wearing better-fitting clothes and smelling like something other than coal tar, he's certain he can weather whatever overcooked, flavourless dish Prince Caerwyn's cooks serve up with quiet fortitude, and perhaps even a smile on his face, to boot.


	11. Chapter 11

The indolence of the long summer holiday had done nothing to improve Rhys' sour mood, and he greeted Florian's return to their shared room first with a scowl and thereafter sullen silence. 

He sat slumped, unmoving, at the end of his own bed whilst Florian unpacked and stowed away his clothes, only stirring into life when Rayner barged through the door in his typical boisterous fashion, booming out Rhys' name at an unnecessarily high volume, as though they were separated by the entire length of a street instead of a few feet of floorboards.

Rhys was all smiles then, and he jumped up from his bed to enfold Rayner in an equally unnecessarily close embrace. Florian watched them both out of the corner of his eye as he folded his shirts, paying particularly close attention to Rayner. Testing himself. 

Rayner looked much the same as he did when Florian last saw him: his hair still cropped far too close to his head, the scruffy stubble he'd latterly persisted in sporting still clinging grimly onto his jaw and chin in sparse patches. Annoyingly, he was also still a shade taller than Florian, despite Florian's recent growth spurt.

And he was still handsome. That observation was one Florian was stuck with, apparently. No resurgence of the desire to kiss Rayner followed, though, which Florian was grateful for. Just as Olivia had posited, that strange, unwelcome urge must have been a fortnight-long moment of madness, undoubtedly precipitated by the stress of his upcoming exams. Now he had been forewarned of the dreadful possibility, he knew to be on his guard for it and would make sure it never happened again.

When Rayner broke free from Rhys' grasping clutches, he gave his customary nod of acknowledging that Florian wasn't, in fact, invisible. Florian nodded back, acknowledging his acknowledgement, and then they were done. Rayner probably wouldn't even glance his way again for another month or two, never mind deign to speak to him. For a meeting Florian had been dreading for weeks, fearing his own reaction to it, it was remarkably painless.

As Rayner shoved his belongings willy-nilly into his dresser from his bag, he and Rhys chatted animatedly about their summers. Rhys had spent most of his in Cambria, visiting family, whilst Rayner had gone down to Londinium to attend the wedding of a distant cousin, and then all the way up to Caledonia, to take part in a hunting expedition with his father.

"What about you, De Courcy?" Rayner asked. "Did you get up to anything interesting on your holidays?"

He wouldn't normally care – hadn't asked once in six years – and the question was thus so unexpected that it completely poleaxed Florian. He wasn't adept at thinking on his feet in conversation even at the best of times and, put so decidedly on the spot, couldn't think of a single thing to say in reply. Nothing that would make his holidays sound _interesting_ – nothing that could compete with Cambria, Londinium, or Caledonia.

If he'd had chance to prepare himself beforehand, he likely could have come up with some way to make helping Mother in her surgery and running errands for Grandmama sound like some magnificent adventure far more thrilling than any hunt Rayner had ridden out on but, as it was, he could only gape at him in such a shamefully gormless fashion that it made Rhys burst out laughing.

"I don't know why you're bothering to ask him, Jack," he said. "He'll just have read books. You never do anything else, do you, De Courcy?"

He grinned at Rayner, obviously expecting him to share the joke. Rayner didn't smile back, and he didn't laugh, but he didn't call Rhys a prick, either, as he rightfully deserved. Instead, he just asked Rhys some inane question about Cambrian cuisine which directed his attention back towards him once more, and robbed Florian of the perfect opportunity to excoriate Rhys himself.

He called him a prick and much worse in his head, but that wasn't nearly so satisfying and the frustration over not being able to insult him aloud only served to make him even angrier. When he found himself seriously contemplating hurling a fireball at Rhys' head – school rules be damned – he judged it prudent to extricate himself from the situation without delay.

Halfway to the library, it suddenly occurred to him that he should have told Rhys to take a leaf out of his book (ha!) and read more himself, then perhaps he might do better in his exams and not keep coming bottom of their class year after year. 

Such thoughts only ever struck him when it was far too late to make use of them –_ l'esprit d'escalier_, he believed the Gallians termed it – and he was determined to start writing them down, so he could be sure to have the _mot juste_ already on hand should the occasion ever arise which demanded them again.

He had hoped to find Olivia in the library – a friendly ear into which he could pour out his troubles – but it was empty save for Master Taylor. He was much less tolerant of complaints about Rhys, claiming the need to be impartial when it came to the school's pupils even when one of them was a terrible student who hadn't so much as put a toe inside the library in all his time at the College, but he did provide Florian with a cup of tea and plate of freshly baked biscuits and then engaged him in pleasant conversation about the latest additions to the library's collection.

After a couple of hours spent in such a rational, peaceful manner, Florian finally felt calm enough to return to his room and weather Rhys and Rayner's company. 

But they weren't there, even though it was almost ten o'clock and closing in on their curfew. 

Florian changed into his nightshirt but sat up in bed reading _Forty Nights in Gallia_ rather than attempting to get to sleep, knowing that he was bound to be disturbed in short order by the other two boys rushing in – shouting and laughing and three sheets to the wind, most likely – seconds before the curfew bell tolled.

But ten o'clock passed without any sight or sound of them, then eleven, and it was closing in on midnight when, eyelids sagging, Florian gave up on waiting for them to return, laid his book aside, and settled down to sleep. No doubt Rhys and Rayner would spend the night in whatever unsavoury gin mill they'd taken themselves off to rather than risk being caught trying to sneak back onto the school grounds at such a late hour. Rayner could expect no direr consequences than being subjected to a dejected look from Master Hainsworth if they were, but Rhys would be facing a month of Templeday detentions, at the very least. 

They hadn't returned when Florian awoke in the morning, nor were they at the table for breakfast, and Florian didn't see hide nor hair of them until a little before nine, when they stumbled into the first lesson of the day only moments ahead of Master Armstrong. 

They both looked ghastly: ashen-pale and bleary eyed, their shirts and trousers crumpled like soiled handkerchiefs. Rhys proceeded to nod off at his desk, and Rayner seemingly couldn't scrape together a sufficiency of his wits to dazzle Master Armstrong with his phenomenal runic skills as he usually did. 

All of the runes he was called upon to draw came out wonky – which, unlike his display of ineptitude the previous year, thankfully did not inspire Florian towards any romantic flights of fancy – and he couldn't answer a single question Master Armstrong posed him with anything approaching coherence. 

At the end of the lesson, the Master pulled Rayner aside, and in a low, gentle tone that Florian had to strain his ears to hear as he passed them by, told him that he was disappointed and that Rayner had better pull his socks up if he wanted to retain his position as class prodigy. It was the closest Rayner had ever come to being scolded for his behaviour in all their time at school, and Florian thought it both long overdue and thoroughly justified. His opinion of Master Armstrong, already high, soared off into the far reaches of the upper atmosphere.

Rayner's performance was similarly dismal in the rest of their lessons that day, and he and Rhys sloped off immediately after dinner, presumably headed for their beds and an early night. 

But when Florian retired for the day himself, after a long, fruitful, and very rewarding evening spent arguing about the minutiae of alchemical recipes with Olivia and Charlie, Rhys and Rayner had disappeared once more. 

He fell asleep alone and awoke alone, and that delightful pattern continued every day for the next month. Florian gloried in his newfound solitude and the freedom it accorded him, quickly becoming accustomed to coming and going as he pleased without the need to be cautious or circumspect about entering his bedroom lest he interrupted either of his roommates in a state of undress or unduly disturbed them on one of the rare occasions they were absorbed in their homework.

He became complacent, which proved to be a costly mistake a handful of days later, when he strolled – blithe, nonchalant, and recklessly unprepared – in on a scene of unmitigated horror. He had only the briefest of split-second glimpses before he slammed his eyes closed and stumbled away spitting out apologies, tripping over his own feet in his haste to escape, but even that was appalling enough that it sent him fleeing towards the nearest source of comfort.

Fortunately, Olivia rather than Angwen answered Florian's frantic knocking at their bedroom door. She was wearing her reading glasses and her fingers were smudged with ink, clearly wrenched away from the essay about Lemaire's _Colette_ for Master Berger's class that she'd wanted to finish that night, but her irritated frown faded, replaced by a look of concern as soon as she glanced at Florian's face – which, he assumed, was a bloodless mask of pure dismay.

She linked their arms together and quick-step marched Florian down through the main school building to the grounds. The evening air was muggy, unusually warm for the season, but Florian still shivered when he stepped out into it. He thought it must be the shock.

"What's happened now?" Olivia asked, once they were a safe distance from the building.

"I just caught Rhys and Rayner…" Florian couldn't bring himself to form the words in Trade and had to resort to High Imperial to distance himself from the unpleasant reality of them. "_In flagrante delicto_ in our room."

"Oh." This time, Olivia's eyes were brimming over with the sympathy Florian had come to her searching for, but there was none of the surprise he'd expected. "That must have been really embarrassing for all three of you, but I guess it was pretty much inevitable."

"It was?"

"Well, they've been together for weeks now, haven't they? And Rhys has been chasing after Jack for _years_."

Not for the first time, Florian felt as though there must be a College newsletter and he had somehow been left off the circulation list for it; a newsletter which kept everyone else informed of which pupils were considered handsome and who was shagging who, as Olivia certainly always acted as though such things were common knowledge.

Or, perhaps she simply paid more attention to Rhys and Rayner than he did. Although the idea was a repugnant one, it probably behove him to take better note of their comings and goings and carryings on, so he'd never be blindsided by something like this again.

"Are you…?" Olivia paused, hesitant, and squeezed Florian's arm tightly. "You're not jealous, are you, Flos?"

"Of course not," Florian said. "The end of last term was just a temporary aberration, like you and that walking ham, Thomas Howe."

Olivia did not look quite as convinced by that as Florian would have liked, but as he had no desire to keep Rhys and Rayner at the forefront of either of their minds, he steered their conversation onto the more mutually enjoyable subject of magical theory in order to distract her from further talk about them.

Thus engaged, they wandered about the grounds for an hour or more, until Florian judged that it might be safe to attempt another incursion into his bedroom.

He rapped loudly on the door before doing so, and then made a great, noisy production about stomping through it – needlessly, it transpired, as only Rayner was in residence, sitting cross-legged in the centre of Rhys' now neatly made bed.

He flushed an ugly shade of puce when he looked up at Florian, and he stammered out, "I- I'm sorry, De Courcy."

"It's all right," Florian said, even though it was nothing of the sort and the words were merely a reflex response to the apology. That one frightful glimpse would likely be engraved just as deeply in his mind as Master Hainsworth's excruciating talk about adolescent awakenings two years prior, and just as likely to haunt him for years to come.

But Rayner seemed unwilling to take him at his word and let the matter drop, forging on with: "We weren't really thinking and got a bit… carried away."

"It's fine," Florian said. "You can spare me the details."

"I promise you, it won't ever happen again," Rayner said solemnly.

"Thank you."

And that should have been the end of it, leaving Rayner free to go chasing after Rhys or whatever else he planned on doing with the remainder of his evening, but he didn't budge. He stayed sitting exactly where he was and kept staring at Florian in a strangely forthright and earnest fashion that quickly became unnerving, and Florian pretended a sudden need to tidy his perfectly orderly and well-organised desk in an attempt to avoid it.

He still fancied he could feel Rayner's eyes boring into his back, and it was still impossible to ignore him, with all his huffed-out sighs and endless shifting of his weight, making the bed's ancient springs groan mournfully in objection.

Eventually, Rayner said, "Me and Rhys, it's not… We're just…."

After all the build-up, that was apparently the limit of what he could manage to spit out, and very soon thereafter he gave up and quitted the room with nothing more than another, "I'm sorry, De Courcy."

Surprisingly, Rayner was good to his word, and he and Rhys kept a scrupulously decent distance between one another whenever they were in the room at the same time as Florian, and for a short while it seemed as though everything between them had returned to its status quo.

But then Rhys turned on him again, just as he had the previous year. Worse, even, as the insults he hurled Florian's way whenever Rayner's back was turned or he was preoccupied with something else for as much as a moment were absolutely vile, and so numerous that Florian couldn't keep up with them, despite the many _bon mots_ he'd noted down in the little notebook he'd purchased for just that purpose after the last time Rhys slighted him.

Florian's belongings started being tampered with again, too - his drawers rearranged, and his desk rifled through. It happened often enough that even Olivia tired of Florian talking about it, telling him that, unless he was willing to go to Master Hainsworth and make a formal complaint, she didn't want to hear another word on the subject, and Florian was forced to rely on Charlie – who disliked Rhys fully as much as he did himself, especially since Rayner had been threatening to invite Rhys to spend Yuletide with their family, which Rhys was unbearably smug about – as his sole confidant.

The final straw came near the end of the autumn term, when his essay on the Caledonian runic tradition, left unattended for only a minute or two as he stepped away from his desk to visit the bathroom, was ruined beyond repair by a spill from his inkwell which had, Rhys insisted, spontaneously overturned and upended itself over the page whilst he was gone.

Incensed beyond caring about school rules for the first time, Florian cast a spell over his desk the next time he was alone in the room – one designed to not only garner the proof Olivia insisted he needed, but enact a small measure of revenge, too.

For the following two days, nothing came of it, but on the third, Florian hung back after their last lesson of the day to ask Master Lewis to explain the finer points and movements of the spell she'd just taught them, and when he finally left the practice hall, Rhys was waiting for him in the shadows cast by the small copse of trees beside it.

He surged towards Florian, hands outstretched, displaying the small burns that peppered his palms. "You did this to me, didn't you?" he said accusingly.

"I did," Florian said, head held high. He was quite proud of the spell he'd woven – a simple one at its core, meant to mark an object as the caster's own and stain the hands of anyone else who touched it in a way that was invisible unless one had the Sight, but modified slightly to deliver a series of small shocks as well as the pigment. "I was just trying to protect what's mine."

Magic sparked along Rhys' fingers, coruscating across his skin, and he took a step closer to Florian.

"You can't use magic against me," Florian told him, standing his ground and secure in the correct order of things. "It's against school rules."

"Aye, and so was the spell you cast. You've not got a leg to stand on there."

Rhys advanced again, and a tiny slither of unease stirred into life deep in Florian's guts. He took a wary glance around himself, looking for some avenue of escape, but the grounds were deserted – not a Master or fellow pupil in sight who might come to his aid. 

Although they'd recently been taught a translocation spell, Florian hadn't mastered it, and couldn't even use it to reliably travel from one end of the practice hall to the other yet. And given his complete eschewal of physical exercise – which seemed stupidly short-sighted now, and something he should remedy post haste – he had no chance of outrunning Rhys, who played football and generally charged about the place whenever he had the opportunity to do so.

He had no option but to summon his own magic, too. 

It rumbled through the ground as he drew on it and tore apart the air, raising a swift wind that snatched at his and Rhys' coats, then coursed along the length upraised arm, burning white-hot in his hand.

He was more powerful and more skilled than Rhys; that much had been obvious long before this sabre-rattling display, but Rhys didn't retreat, nonetheless.

"You're such a sanctimonious tosser, De Courcy," he said. "I don't know how anyone can stand to be around you. How they can…." He shook his head. "I mean, just fucking look at you."

He made a rough gesture, encompassing all of Florian, and then sneered at him, as he always did when he was forced to look at him for more than a moment at a time, as though he found the very sight aggravating beyond endurance.

Florian had never been able to understand what Rhys found so objectionable about his appearance. He was a little too skinny, perhaps, especially after his growth spurt, but he always tried to be well turned out – his hair immaculately coiffed and his clothes pressed and tidily arranged.

"What’s wrong with the way I look?" he asked "And what does it matter to you, anyway?"

Rhys seemingly couldn't explain it, either, as his only response was a harsh, wordless growl. The magic at his fingertips crackled. 

Rayner, who had of course - _of course_ – mastered translocation almost instantaneously, shimmered into being nearby, glanced between the two of them, and then immediately moved to stand in front of Florian.

"Stop it, Rhys." His own drawing power whipped through the trees at Rhys' back, bending their branches until they began to snap. "Leave him be."

Rhys laughed, humourless and hollow. "Oh, so that's how it is, is it? I should have guessed. You're fucking unbelievable, Jack."

His magic flared a little brighter, and Florian almost thought he might be foolish enough to hurl it at Rayner. But he must have managed to scrape enough good sense together to think better of it because, after aiming a snarled curse at Rayner, he swivelled on his heel and stalked away, heading back towards the main school building

Rayner watched him go until he was out of sight, and then turned around to face Florian, his brow creased with anxiety.

"Are you okay, De Courcy?" he asked. "He didn't hurt you, did he?"

Florian couldn't imagine why he'd care, except perhaps that he was worried Rhys might get in trouble if Florian was harmed.

"I'm fine," he said. "And I didn't need you stepping in and throwing your weight around. I think I could manage to hold my own in a magical duel against _Rhys_."

"I'm sure you could." Rayner chuckled. "But he shouldn't have been trying to start one with you, regardless."

"I suppose it was somewhat inevitable." Florian was surprised it had never happened before, if he was honest. "I do get the impression he doesn't much care for me."

"Well, no, he doesn't," Rayner said without an ounce of remorse or apology. "But this wasn't about that. It wasn't really about you, at all."

Quite what it _was_ about, he didn't see fit to elaborate. Instead, he gave Florian a small, parting bow and took his leave without another word.

Florian decided it would be wise for him to spend the rest of his evening in the library and he stayed there until a few minutes before curfew, to avoid any unpleasantness.

When he did pluck up the courage to return to his room, not only Rhys but his bed and dresser were absent from it.

Rayner was seated at his desk, his head in his hands, and looked up briefly when he heard Florian step through the door. His eyes were bleary and bloodshot. "Rhys has been moved into a room with Thomas Howe," he said flatly.

"Ah, okay," Florian said, striving to keep his own voice level and not allow any of the pleasure he took at the news to seep into his tone. He doubted Rayner would appreciate it.

"We've had words," Rayner said. "I don't think he'll be bothering you again."

Florian was put in the unprecedented and unhappy position of feeling as though he should thank Rayner, but before he could get the words out, Rayner got unsteadily to his feet and, slowly and mechanically, started readying himself for bed.

Florian turned away from him and did the same. Rayner didn't offer any further explanations about what had happened between him and Rhys, on that night or any other, but whatever words they shared must have been very effective ones as Rhys didn't so much as look at Florian for the rest of the year, never mind anything else.


	12. Chapter 12

Florian didn't expect much to come from Rayner's promise, and when afternoon shaded into evening and brought no second visit from him, his pessimism seemed to be affirmed.

But not long after the sun has sunk below the horizon, there comes a brisk knock at his door which is closely followed by Charlie, his arms laden with a veritable mountain of clothing. He deposits the pile on the bed, then disentangles himself from the pair of boots that are slung around his neck by their knotted-together laces and flings them to the floor.

"I've been on the scrounge all afternoon," he says, "trying to find as many clothes as I could that might fit you. Hopefully, there'll be something in there that'll suit."

"Thank you, Charlie," Florian says warmly, touched that he's gone to so much trouble over what is, in the grand scheme of things, a trifling matter. As mage to a prince, he must have far more important duties that he set aside in his search for shirts and breeches.

"So, you're not going to start calling me Lord Charles, then?" Charlie says with a wry smile. "Jack told me you found out about us, and I know you like to be very proper about that sort of thing."

Normally, Florian does – an instinct that has been honed to a keen edge due to his years at court, mingling with fine lords and ladies who react to every missed or forgotten courtesy as though they've been dealt a grievous and unforgivable insult – but the thought hadn't even crossed his mind.

Loath as he is to admit it, the honorific does not seem an incongruous one when applied to Rayner. He's tall, imposingly built, and darkly handsome – the very picture of a courtly knight or – it's painful for Florian to even contemplate, no matter how true it might be – a King's Battle Mage, and brimful of the sort of cocksure self-assurance that comes with rank and wealth.

But Charlie is just _Charlie_. Always affable, always humble, and despite his garrulity, not one to put himself forward – content to fade into his brother's much longer shadow. He was a middling student and is likely a middling mage too, but more than that, he was one of Florian's few friends at school, and Florian can't help but remember the small, rotund, perpetually snotty child he once was whenever he looks at him.

"Do you want me to?" Florian asks.

"Oh, gods above, no." Charlie laughs. "I don't care for that shit any more than Jack does. When the time comes, I imagine we're going to end up duelling each other for the title. Loser has to take it. The best we can hope for is that one of us marries someone who enjoys all the pomp and ceremony, and that sort of thing.

"Right," he says, stepping back towards the door, "I should let you have some privacy so you can get ready. Jack'll be up to fetch you around seven."

After he's left, Florian sifts through the pile of clothes on his bed. There are three shirts – all slightly off-white – two black frockcoats, three pairs of breeches, and even a waistcoat made from green silk, covered in tiny flowers embroidered in gold thread. 

Bundled up inside one of the shirts, Florian finds a bar of soap which smells faintly of bergamot and lemon, and a blue, glass-stoppered bottle filled with rose bath oil. He avails himself of both when he steps into the little soaking tub that the tiled alcove masquerading as his bathroom is equipped with. 

He has to fold his knees up around his ears to squeeze himself into it, bend and twist his body like a fairground contortionist in order to wash his more out of the way areas, and the water is lukewarm and cloudy, but he still feels refreshed afterwards – scoured truly clean for the first time since his capture and practically human again.

A deplorably hirsute human, nonetheless, but then Rayner has repeatedly refused his requests for a razor. Razors, like decent alcohol and hot water, are apparently luxuries that are not afforded to prisoners, even those who – as their captors are surely well aware – have neither the training nor the strength necessary to wield such a blade with enough skill that it could pressed into service as a weapon.

As the room's meagre furnishings don't run to a mirror, Florian must rely on touch alone to judge the progress of the beard he's unwittingly sprouting. Barring an ill-advised and mercifully brief attempt to cultivate a moustache at the height of the fashion for them when he was seventeen, his whiskers are longer than they've ever been, so it's probably for the best he can't see them. That adolescent misadventure had taught him, quite harshly, that his is not the sort of face that is improved in any particular by the addition of hair.

The clothes Charlie brought him, on the other hand, are a vast improvement over those he is already wearing and fit him like a glove – albeit a glove which smells faintly of mothballs and stale cigar smoke. As a finishing touch, Florian smooths back his hair with a dab of the rose oil, hoping that its sweet scent will drown out the fustiness of the fabric.

He has just enough time to settle down in an armchair, open his latest book and arrange himself in an artfully artless relaxed pose with it before Rayner materialises in the corner of the room. _His_ frockcoat and trousers are wrinkled and smudged with dust, his hair a rat's nest tangle, and his harassed expression suggests an afternoon filled with far greater frustrations than the lack of a razor.

"Sorry I'm late," he says – an apology that is both unexpected and unneeded, as Florian still has no recourse to a pocket watch or any other means of telling the time and hadn't known that he was overdue to arrive. "I got caught up in… something else. We're going to have to get a shift on."

He motions emphatically for Florian to get up from the chair, and as soon as he's on his feet, hurries him out of the door with a hand pressed to the small of his back. Throughout their long walk down through the tower from Florian's gaol cell, he tugs at his hair and his frockcoat in a futile attempt to restore them to something approaching order.

Halfway along the corridor at the base of the stairs, he finally admits defeat with a heavy sigh, then inclines his head towards Florian to say, "Now, before we sit down with His Highness, I should tell you—"

"I know perfectly well how to conduct myself when dining with royalty, " Florian cuts in, not wanting to hear whatever insultingly obvious advice Rayner is poised to dispense. "I have done it a time or two before, you know."

"I don't doubt it," Rayner says, "which is why I was about to say that Prince Caerwyn doesn't stand on as much ceremony as you're probably used to. Besides, there's only going to be the three of us there, so it's hardly going to be a formal banquet or anything like."

"So, just you, me, and your _innamorato_?" Florian quails at the thought; he would have much preferred a formal banquet, with its rules and its noise and its distractions. "How wonderfully cosy."

"My…?" Rayner's next word is choked off – half shocked laughter, half cough. He clears his throat and tries again. "My what!? Is that what they're calling him at court?"

Nothing so kind. When the rumours of the prince and Rayner's affair first reached Eboracum, they had been couched in such vulgar and crass terms that Florian will not stoop to repeat them, even on the off chance that they might embarrass Rayner. As Prince Caerwyn had been widely assumed to be indifferent to matters of the heart otherwise, courtly speculation had run long and exceedingly crude concerning those attributes Rayner might be imagined to possess that were compelling enough to overcome his disinterest.

"Well, it makes no odds, either way," Rayner says before Florian has chance to reply, "because that's all over and done with, anyway."

Just as Charlie had told Florian, but as he'd also said that Rayner doesn't like to discuss his romantic life, Florian judges it best to stay silent on that matter to avoid betraying his foreknowledge, which could only have come from one source. 

"Ah," he says neutrally.

"I ended it months ago," Rayner continues unprompted, making a liar of Charlie. "It just wasn't working out."

"Oh."

"Caerwyn's a great man, and a great prince, but on a personal level he's… He can be a little cold, you know?"

Florian didn't, and he doesn't _want_ to know anything personal about Prince Caerwyn, not when he's about to sit down and dine with the man. In his experience, it's best to keep a respectful distance when it comes to princes.

Thankfully, Rayner doesn't have chance to expound any further on the prince's supposed deficiencies as a lover as they very soon thereafter near the intricately carved doors that lead to his study.

"We'll be eating in here rather than the dining room," Rayner says, gesturing towards them. "It should be a bit more private."

Just as he had on their first visit to the room, Rayner pauses outside it, but instead of making a last-ditch attempt at looking presentable, he slowly looks Florian up and down, presumably appraising his efforts at doing the same.

"You look more like your old self again," is his eventual conclusion.

As Rayner probably wouldn't have bothered to piss on Florian's old self if he was on fire unless the flames were threatening to imperil him too, Florian doubts it's meant as a compliment and consequently doesn't thank Rayner for it.

Rayner doesn't appear to have been expecting any gratitude, anyway, as he turns away from Florian immediately after speaking and raps on the doors – an act of politeness he grants only to princes, seemingly.

A liveried servant answers the knock, bows low to Rayner, perfunctorily to Florian, and then ushers them inside. 

The desk which had once dominated the room has been pushed back to rest against the wall, and in its place is a small table draped with a snowy white tablecloth and lit by a forest of silver and gold candlesticks, at the head of which Prince Caerwyn is seated.

He glances up just long enough to receive Rayner and Florian's own bows before returning his attention to the report laid out in front of him. In silence, Rayner seats himself to the right of his prince and, with a brusque hand gesture, urges Florian to take the chair to the left. 

Despite this encouragement, Florian still hesitates before doing so, as that chair is set so close to the prince's that they'll be in danger of banging elbows as they eat and, if he cranes his neck a little, he can clearly see the details of the prince's report. But not read it, it turns out, as it appears to be written in some sort of code, and not one Florian recognises. 

It's obviously a complex one, requiring all the prince's concentration to decipher any meaning from the seemingly random jumble of letters, because he stares intently down at the page, gaze unwavering and not saying a single word, until a maid enters the room pushing a serving trolley bearing three bowls of the gluey leek and potato soup that seems to be the only variety the lodge's cooks are capable of preparing.

That drags the prince away from his reading at last, and he digs into his own bowl with an evident relish that Florian cannot fathom, being intimately familiar with the kind of food the prince would have grown up eating. Rayner, too, spoons his soup up readily enough, but Florian can only pick and poke at his own. Bearing Rayner's warning in mind, he'd tried not to get his hopes up unduly, but still he'd expected something slightly better than the bland, prison fare he was usually served.

"You must be missing my brother's chef, High Mage," Prince Caerwyn observes, a small, crooked smile on his lips.

"I must confess I am, Your Highness," Florian says, laying aside his spoon and the pretence of finding anything enjoyable about the food along with it.

"And many of your other comforts besides, I shouldn't wonder," the prince says. "I would return you to them all tomorrow if I could, but my brother is proving recalcitrant, and refuses to pay your ransom, no matter the size."

"I see, Your Highness," Florian says flatly, careful not to let his disappointment show. He assumes negotiations are not ongoing, as Rayner diplomatically reported to him each day, but have actually stalled.

"I'm starting to think that he may not want you back," Prince Caerwyn says.

Florian does not believe that of his prince – _refuses_ to – but there are many others at court who would be eager to advise him that it was better to save his coppers and leave Florian to rot. Florian's appointment as High Mage had put many noses out of joint – noses attached to venerable, experienced royal mages who thought the position their due as a reward for their long years of service to the crown.

"And I'm starting to understand why." The prince pushes his scraped-clean bowl aside and draws a creased sheet of writing paper out of his coat pocket, which he hands to Florian. "A maid intercepted this missive from you."

It's the letter Florian had written to Prince Dafydd the previous week, informing him of Lord Sorsby's disloyalty. The maid hadn't so much 'intercepted' it as 'dug it out of the bin' where he'd thrown it after coming to his senses and realising how ludicrous it had been to even contemplate asking Rayner to send it for him.

"And these were handed to me by High Mage Rayner." Prince Caerwyn extracts two more envelopes from his pocket – one addressed to Mother, the other to Olivia. Those, Florian _had_ given to Rayner to post, as they contained no mention of Prince Caerwyn's allies or his soldiers' movements, only a recounting of the mundane events of Florian's days and their attendant annoyances. "Written in cipher, I assume."

Rayner is finally distracted from the depths of his soup bowl by that remark. "As I mentioned, Your Highness," he says, "I don't think—"

Prince Caerwyn shakes his head sharply, cutting Rayner short. "My brother sent you here to spy on me, didn't he?" he says. "I should have known it from the start. I should have wondered why he sent his High Mage to accompany a routine border patrol."

Florian had begged Prince Dafydd to accord him the privilege of doing so. Although he'd taught himself the basics of battle magic in his final year of school, and learnt every offensive spell he could find record of in the palace's library over the intervening years since then, he had never once put any of them to practical use. Seeing war looming close just as plainly as Prince Caerwyn himself claimed to, he had wanted, quite desperately, to test himself in the field before he was called on to fight for his prince in earnest.

"I was there to boost the soldiers' morale, Your Highness," he says, as the truth would be a humiliating one to admit to the prince and, especially, to Rayner, who, he's heard tell, fights like a man possessed in battle, brutal and unflagging.

"I don't believe that for a moment, High Mage. My brother has never cared a whit for his soldiers' lives, never mind their morale," Prince Caerwyn says, shrugging off Florian's explanation with a lazy roll of his shoulders. "And then we managed to capture you so easily, even though Jack has told me you're one of the most accomplished mages he's ever known."

Astonished, Florian looks towards Rayner, seeking some confirmatory sign, some telling quirk of his expression as evidence that the prince's words are something other than empty flattery, but Rayner has dropped his head again, his face shielded from view by his tousled hair.

"Now, it's been so long since Dafydd last heard from you, he doubtless suspects that I've uncovered your true purpose for being here," the prince says. "I want you to reassure him that I haven’t, and to inform him of some… other useful lies. Jack will tell you exactly what I want you to write."

With that, the prince springs up from his chair and, without a parting word of farewell to either Florian or Rayner, sweeps out of the room.

"I'm not a spy," Florian tells Rayner – as he would have told the prince, had he given him a moment's breathing room to do so.

"I know," Rayner says. "And I did try to tell him that, but he can be very… single-minded."

"So I see."

"Believe it or not, I used to find that charming." Rayner chuckles, then straightens up from his hunch over his bowl, stretching his arms out above his head. "I also asked him to leave all this till after we'd finished our tea, but it looks as though we won't even be getting our main course now." 

He gets up from his seat and beckons for Florian to follow him. "Come on, High Mage; I'll rustle us both up a sandwich or summat in the kitchens, then we'll get to writing that letter to your prince."


	13. Chapter 13

* * *

Florian would not have been quite so delighted by Rhys' abrupt departure from his immediate circle at the tail end of the previous year if he'd had an inkling of the dreadful impact it would then have upon the next.

Angwen had taken Rhys' side over Rayner's following their acrimonious break-up, and most of the older students Rayner used to hang around with had either recently graduated or else were so engrossed in their schoolwork that they had little time to spare him anymore, leaving him at something of a loose end. Charlie, being a dutiful brother, took pity on him, which meant that Florian had to endure his company more often than ever before.

Their outdoor reading sessions were bespoiled by his presence – admittedly quiet and as unobtrusive as he was capable of being, but taking up far more than his fair share of Florian's picnic blanket with his great hulking frame – and their studies in the library were ruined by his inability to sit still for more than a few minutes at a time – always running hither and thither to fetch fresh books and not a one of them even tenuously connected to the subject they were trying to revise.

Worst of all were the days when Olivia and Charlie were otherwise engaged. Much as he'd have preferred to do so, Florian couldn't spend every free moment in the library – Master Taylor wouldn’t allow it; like Mother, he insisted that Florian should get a regular dose of fresh air – and he was forced by necessity to spend the evening in his room every so often.

Before Rhys tossed him aside, Rayner was barely ever there himself. When they were younger, he would play football and climb trees in the grounds until curfew, and in later years, he'd be out drinking or else holed up in whatever sordid little love nest he and Rhys had built for themselves.

Now, he was always underfoot. Whether Florian was at his desk, composing an essay, or seated on his bed reading, Rayner would be curled up on his own bed, scribbling away in a succession of books bound in cloth decorated with convoluted patterns of interlocking knots, reminiscent of those ornamenting ancient Brittonic temples from before the Roman invasion.

As these bouts of industry never corresponded to any homework they were ever assigned, Florian could only assume that he was committing his personal musings to paper. Perhaps even keeping a diary, given the way he arched his body over the books and curled his arm around the pages whenever Florian so much as shot an idle glance his way, as though afraid that Florian was surreptitiously attempting to get a glimpse at the turgid inner workings of his mind.

Even thus absorbed, he was never silent or still, though. He heaved long sighs, grumbled and groaned about his hand cramping when he'd spent too long at his writing, and even hummed on occasion, loudly and, worse still, tonelessly, all of which made it impossible for Florian to concentrate properly on his own, far more important work.

This evening, Rayner had been _whistling_ some jaunty but discordant tune for the best part of quarter of an hour, off and on, which had stopped being distracting around the two-minute mark, and thereafter become actively aggravating. Though Florian normally resisted allowing Rayner to drive him away from his own quarters, for the sake of their future domestic harmony, he determined it would be wise to return to the library – even if he then had to hide behind one of the stacks on the sixth floor where Master Taylor hardly ever ventured on account of his rheumaticky knees – so he didn't instead seal Rayner's mouth shut with a spell as his fingers were itching to do.

When he slammed his book closed in preparation for moving, however, Rayner suddenly said, "Are you nervous about tomorrow?" 

Rayner posed Florian direct questions so rarely that they always flummoxed him, and this one caught him so unprepared that the truth that he was petrified was almost at the tip of his tongue before he realised his mistake and swallowed it back down.

"Of course not," he said. "I'm well prepared."

"Is your book helping with that?" Rayner shuffled to the edge of his bed, and there seated, leant forward to peer at the book's title. "'_The Geography of the Otherworld and Other Mystical Realms_'," he read. "I don't remember Master Hainsworth mentioning that one."

"She didn't," Florian said. "I'm doing my own research."

"Aye?" Rayner's eyebrows twitched upwards slightly, betraying mild curiosity. "Is there anything interesting in there I should know about?"

"I'm not helping you cheat, Rayner," Florian said primly, folding the book in close against his chest, shielding it from Rayner's view. "If you can't be bothered to read up on the subject, then that's on you."

Rayner let out a sharp bark of laughter; Florian couldn't tell if it was amused or derisive. 

"I've done all the _required_ reading," he said, and there was a crackling note of offended pride in his voice that Florian thought was uncalled-for. In all their years at school together, he'd never seen Rayner open a book that didn't have a picture of pirates or brigands on the cover aside from the private journals he guarded so zealously, so some measure of scepticism on his part was surely to be expected. "I know the basics: don't take any gifts from the fae, don't eat their food, and if a dragon comes after you, you might as well just close your eyes and pray because it'd take an entire cadre of Battle Mages to bring it down.

"Like I said, I was just wondering if your book was interesting?"

"Oh." Florian blinked at him, bewildered, and shocked into silence for a spell because the question was even more unexpected than the last. No-one ever asked him that anymore – not even Olivia, for fear that he might actually answer. The books he read were seldom very interesting to anyone but himself. "You probably wouldn't think so."

"I find lots of things interesting," Rayner said, shrugging. "Why don't you tell me something you've learnt from it, so I can judge for myself?"

"Well…." Florian drew out the word to give himself more time to ascertain how he should proceed. He couldn't shake the vague fear he was being set up to blunder into some form of verbal trap, but, more than that, it was near impossible to condense one of the most comprehensive works on supernatural geography down to a pithy synopsis that sounded _interesting_. 

At the conclusion of the final L, he made the snap decision to summarise the latest chapter he'd read to submit for Rayner's judgement, if only because he lacked any better ideas.

"There's some debate as to whether the Otherworld is a singular domain, or if it's better described as a number of contiguous realms," he said. "The Hibernians consider it to be the dwelling place of their gods, and there is some evidence of that, and the Caledonians call it Elfhame, the home of the fae, which we know is true. The old Brittonic myths state that some of our ancestors, the heroes of legend, live there still, and the author, Evans, claims to have met some of them on his travels through what we call the Otherworld. He considers _all_ the stories to be accurate, because…."

Florian glanced across at Rayner warily, to see whether he was following along or had already nodded off in boredom. His eyes were open, but he was also wearing a small, watery smile that Florian was certain he recognised. Charlie often donned the same expression when he was trying to be polite but thought whatever Florian was talking about was crushingly dull.

"Because he does," Florian finished, to spare himself more than Rayner, as embarrassment was already creeping hot up the back of his neck. He rubbed at the prickling skin there, in the hopes of chasing the feeling away.

"Is that it?" Rayner asked, and then he laughed again. "I thought Dylan Evans was supposed to be one of the best philosophers of magic in Cambria. There must be more to his theories than that."

"Well, there is," Florian said, "but they do tend to be a bit convoluted."

Rayner made an encouraging gesture with one hand, seemingly urging Florian to continue. So, Florian did. He talked on and on about Evans' theories, their twists and turns and many leaps of logic, and every so often, Rayner would interrupt him – not to tell him to slow down or shut up, but to ask a surprisingly pertinent question that often led them onto discussing another aspect of magical theory, another book that Florian had read.

Florian's last shock of the night came when the curfew bell tolled. He hadn't been expecting it at all; hadn't noticed the time spooling away from him. 

He'd never known an evening to pass so quickly before.

* * *

Florian awoke at dawn after an unsettled night which had left him woolly-headed and clammy with fear-sweat. Whilst Rayner slumbered on – sprawled out on his back, gape-mouthed and snoring softly – he crept out to the bathroom, where he soaked in the tub until his fingers and toes both pruned, and then spent a painstaking half-hour persuading his stubborn hair to lay flat, smoothing out its defiant waves, and dressing with even more care and attention paid towards maintaining the clean lines of his clothes than he usually spent.

He tried his best to eat breakfast – the most important meal of the day, Mother always said – but could only manage to force down two spoonfuls of porridge before his stomach rebelled, churning sickeningly and threatening to expel everything he'd just eaten.

Afterwards, he wasn't sure what to do with himself – walking, as ever, didn't appeal, and, for once, he couldn't maintain enough focus to read – so he went and sat in the College's entrance hall and stared at nothing at particular, until Olivia appeared at the much more sensible hour of ten-to-eight, just before the carriage Master Hainsworth had chartered was due to arrive.

"You look frightful, Flos," she said, moving to stand at Florian's side. "Are you nervous?"

"A little," Florian said. "How about you?"

"Terrified," Olivia admitted with a breathy laugh. She grabbed hold of Florian's wrist and squeezed it, and hard enough that it was more painful than reassuring. Her hand was ice cold, so Florian trapped it between both of his own and began chafing it, hoping to return some warmth to her skin.

Angwen and Rhys joined them a moment later, together as they always were now, and they were closely followed by Master Hainsworth. Rayner only turned up at the last possible minute, as the rest of them were boarding the parked carriage just outside the College gates. He was red-faced, breathless, and looked as though he'd just rolled out of bed and into whatever clothes he'd left strewn about the floor over the past week since the last washday – even more scruffy and dishevelled than he normally was, despite their destination.

And despite their relative bonhomie of the previous night, he gave Florian only a brief glance before proceeding to utterly ignore him thenceforth, even though Florian ended up practically sitting in his lap due to the close confines of the carriage.

Thankfully, their journey was a short one, and the royal palace soon hove into view outside the carriage windows. It was a spun sugar, chocolate box confection of a building: the epitome of a fairy tale castle with its pure white walls and lofty towers surmounted by slender, green-tiled conical roofs, standing imperiously tall atop the steep hill at the very centre of the city. 

Florian had dreamt about living there since he was a child.

"It's marvellous, isn't it?" he whispered to Olivia.

"It's ostentatious," Olivia whispered back, wrinkling her nose. "I prefer the old governor's palace in Deva. It’s a far more sensible design. I bet no-one even uses the rooms at the tops of those towers. Can you imagine how many stairs there are?"

Any faint hopes Florian may have entertained about serendipitously running into one of the royal family in residence and impressing them with his smart demeanour and polished appearance were quickly dashed, as the carriage didn't roll through the imposing stone archway to the front of the palace, but instead a rusty wrought iron gate to the rear, which opened onto a large cobbled courtyard bordered by a number of plain, red-brick outbuildings.

They were met by a grey-haired servant who creaked when he bowed to them in welcome, and he led them into the palace via a little-used and equally creaky back door, and then down through a long succession of wine cellars and storerooms, along damp and moss-covered corridors, until they eventually fetched up at what appeared to be a small, natural cave, dimly lit by the luminescent fungi that clung to the rough stone walls.

"The ancient castle that once stood here was said to have been built by Llewellyn the Red, the first King of Northern Britannia, to protect this cave," Master Hainsworth said. "The Romans burnt it to the ground when they invaded, and then built the monstrosity up there in its place, never knowing the vast power that lay just beneath their feet."

With a word, she summoned an orb of light to her hand. Its soft glow illuminated a perfect circle of slender stalagmites rising from the cave floor: a door to the Otherworld, though one which was locked and barred to all those without magic.

"Could you open the circle for us, Williams?" Master asked Rhys, who immediately paled.

For perhaps the first time, Florian felt a slight pang of sympathy for Rhys. They'd recently been taught the relevant spell, but it was a complicated and difficult one, requiring a strong but steady stream of magic and several complex runes to complete.

Rhys approached the circle, and though his fingers danced about very energetically, tracing the runes over and over against the air, and he sweated and shook and cursed under his breath when all else failed, nothing happened.

Master Hainsworth thanked Rhys for his efforts, then called for Angwen to take his place. She laboured to the same fruitless end. Olivia fared a little better, and the stones sang to her touch, but still the circle did not open.

Inexorably, dreadfully, Master Hainsworth turned next to Florian.

"Would you like to have a go, De Courcy?" she asked.

_Not really_, Florian thought._ I'd rather gnaw off my own hand, if it's all the same to you_.

"Of course," he said, striding up to the circle with a brisk confidence that was every speck of it a lie. 

He held out one hand, palm flat, above the nearest stalagmite, and his thoughts fractured into a jumble of disconnected snatches of sound – half-recalled fragments of Master Armstrong and Master Lewis' voices giving their lectures on the spell he needed to cast.

He breathed deep, drawing on the power that stirred the humid air around him, felt it vibrate along his arm to his fingers, which seemed to move almost of their own accord, remembering the required movements far better than his mind did.

He drew out the runes for 'key' and 'enter', for 'Otherworld' and 'peace', then spoke them aloud in Old Brittonic to seal the spell. The inside of the circle flared with bright, white light, dazzling in its intensity.

"Well done, De Courcy," Master Hainsworth said, patting Florian's shoulder. "Now, come on, everyone; follow me."

She walked into the light and immediately disappeared. Rhys, Angwen, and Olivia followed her soon after, albeit with evident caution. Rayner took a step forward, and then stopped, eyeing the circle suspiciously and obviously reluctant to commit to the journey ahead. His hesitation spurred Florian to discount his own reservations, wanting to prove himself the braver of the two of them for once.

He expected the light to burn, but it washed over him in cool, refreshing waves – a balm to his overheated skin. His stomach gave a slight lurch, as though he'd missed a step at the foot of a flight of stairs, and then he was standing in the middle of a lush, green meadow, shining verdant beneath the cloudless, azure arc of the sky.

When Rayner stumbled up behind Florian, Master Hainsworth said, "As you all hopefully know, time runs very differently in the Otherworld, so we can't spend long here. Only half an hour today, and we'll still be back late for lunch!

"We'll come again next week and stay longer, but for now I just want you look around a little; familiarise yourselves with your surroundings."

Florian did look as he was instructed to, but he wasn't much impressed by what he saw. Much like his first view of the College, it was a disappointing one, far removed from the illustrations he'd pored over in books and the fruits of his own imagination. 

Apart from an angular black smudge on the far horizon, suggestive of a large building or small town, there was only the grass, a circle marked out by large toadstools that was the linked twin of the one beneath the palace, and a few patches of flowers scattered about the place that did not look or smell any different to any of those he'd ever taken scant notice of in the mortal realm.

Olivia had always been far more interested in Natural Philosophy than Florian, and she was transfixed by both the grass and the flowers, shooing him away when he tried to engage her in conversation to relieve the tedium.

Master Hainsworth was keeping a close eye on her pocket watch to the exclusion of all else, Rhys and Angwen had strolled off together, hand in hand, which left Rayner as the only potential point of interest remaining. 

He was staring fixedly up at the sky and, intrigued, Florian drew closer to him and followed his gaze, thinking he might have caught sight of a dragon. If he had, it'd long since flown on, and the sky was empty once more.

When he looked back down again, Rayner was smiling at him. 

"It's amazing here, isn't it, De Courcy," he said, his normally strident voice hushed with wonder.

"If you say so," Florian said. "It just looks like a field to me."

"Not how it looks – how it _feels_. This is the birthplace of magic and… Have you drawn any yet?"

Florian shook his head.

"You should try it," Rayner said. "It's…" He shook his head, too. "I can't really explain it, but, trust me, it's amazing."

Dubious, Florian drew only lightly on the magic thrumming in the ground beneath his feet. Even that thin trickle surged through his body like a riptide, swelling hot in his chest and pounding like a second heartbeat. His head spun with it, vertiginously dizzy and intoxicating.

"Fucking hell," he said without intending to.

"Gods above, it must be good," Rayner said. "I've never heard you swear before."

And then he threw back his head and laughed. His grey eyes shone like mirrors, reflecting the sharp sunlight, and he'd absorbed so much power that his skin seemed to gleam with it, pearlescent and shimmering. This time, he looked more than beautiful.

"It's—" 

Florian's breath caught, and the word he was trying to speak lodged firm behind the sudden constriction in his throat, but what he'd wanted to say was _magnificent_. Rayner looked magnificent. Although Florian had thought he'd successfully rid himself of the compulsion, he wanted, quite desperately, to kiss him. Or touch him, at the very least, and feel—

"It's magnificent, isn't it?" Master Hainsworth said from somewhere worryingly close to Florian's shoulder, echoing his own thoughts with such eerie precision that he feared his childish belief that she was capable of reading minds wasn't quite as far-fetched as he'd since come to assume.

"The magic here is purer than any you'll ever encounter elsewhere," she continued, easing Florian's mind a little. "There's nothing like it. But I'm afraid I'm going to have to drag you away, regardless. It's time to return to school. Rayner" – she gestured towards the toadstool circle – "would you do the honours this time?"

Rayner cast the spell with a casual nonchalance that would have irritated Florian at any other time, when he wasn't preoccupied with fending off yet more intrusive, unsolicited thoughts about kissing. 

They plagued him throughout their long, trudging walk through the palace cellars back to the waiting carriage, and almost overwhelmed him within it, where he was once again crushed up close beside Rayner on the bench. His body hadn't seemed quite so warm on their outward journey, nor had his breathing seemed so loud, drowning out all other sounds, even Olivia's excited chatter.

Perhaps it was an after-effect of the Otherworld magic that still clung to him, or perhaps, Florian tried to reassure himself, this resurgence of something akin to attraction was simply a seasonal affliction he was doomed to suffer from periodically now, like the sneezing fits he was cursed with every spring when the trees began to blossom. 

Something that was not easily cured, but which could be endured. 

Immediately upon their arrival at the College, Florian attempted to flee to the cool, quiet, solitude of the library, but Master Hainsworth called out his name before he could make good his escape. She called for Rayner too, and then beckoned for them both to follow her into her study.

There, she poured them each a cup of tea, bid them to sit on the short leather sofa with the broken springs beside her desk, and then looked down on them both with a beatific smile. 

"The other Masters and I have been talking about this for a long while, and after your performance today, I'm sure of it." Her smile grew even wider. "Now, there's still a lot for you to learn, but if you're willing to devote your evenings, Templeday afternoons, and perhaps even your holidays to your studies, we think you should be ready to take your final tests soon. We're tentatively looking at next September."

Florian's breath caught again, and hard enough that he choked on his tea. Between his tears, and his coughing, and the energetic thump Rayner landed on his back to clear his airways, he managed to gasp out, "Yes, I'm willing," with something approaching coherence. 

He would have not long turned nineteen then and newly come of age – not the youngest student to ever have taken the test, but a close second. And likely to remain so, as there was no chance in all the many hells that Rayner would be prepared to knuckle down and put some real effort into his work.

But, "Aye," Rayner said a moment later, when Florian's spluttering finally died down. "Me too."

It wasn't much, but there was at least one small thing Florian that could still be grateful for – with three words, Rayner had managed, once again, to snuff out all of Florian's attraction to him in an instant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a hint of it in this chapter, but the overarching plot is finally starting up! More of that in the next part.
> 
> As the overarching plot became quite a lengthy one in the course of planning out this fic - too long for this fic alone (which will also be too short for the slowness of burn I prefer in my fictional relationships) - there will therefore be at least one sequel to this fic (in Jack's POV), almost definitely two (I've not quite finished plotting that one out, so I'm not sure how long it will end up being), as well as some side-stories, so I've made this fic the first part of a series.


	14. Chapter 14

Following the meal he shared with Prince Caerwyn, Florian is abandoned.

Rayner doesn't stop by of a morning to deliver his disingenuous reports about the ransom negotiations, and Charlie no longer visits with his comforting blather and nigh-undrinkable wine.

Though it pains Florian to think so ill of Charlie, by the fourth day of this new routine, he begins to suspect that the brothers' erstwhile display of friendliness – or, in Rayner's case, rudimentary human decency – had been a false one. A ploy meant to soften him up so he'd let down his guard and write that letter full of lies to his prince on Rayner's say-so.

It was mortifying to realise how easily he'd succumbed to it – a few kind words and some creature comforts, and he'd been as compliant as a lamb to the slaughter.

On the sixth day, the maid who'd come to clean away his breakfast dishes and tidy up his room hands him an envelope, sealed with red wax into which a coat of arms has been embossed. Two gorged and crowned horses rearing up on either side of a shield topped by a knight's helmet and the white rose of Eboracum: Rayner's family crest.

The seal sparks when Florian breaks it, disgorging a small cloud of shimmering mist which smells like heated metal and ozone. There's a single sheet of paper within, upon which a short note is written in Rayner's sprawling, almost illegible hand.

> _Need your help with something. Will be up to see you around eleven. _
> 
> _ – Jack._

According to the maid, it's just gone ten o'clock, and Florian uses the time Rayner's uncharacteristic advance warning has gifted him to scrub himself thoroughly, top to toe, and change out of the sloppy but comfortable clothes he'd been wearing to ensure that he doesn't look quite so much like a person who has been wallowing in his own thoughts for the past few days, worried about what his recent isolation might mean.

For the first time since his imprisonment, Rayner not only knocks at the door but waits for Florian to ask him to come in before entering his room. He shuffles over the threshold, his steps sluggish and dragging, and when he stops to offer Florian a short bow, he almost overbalances.

He leans back against the doorjamb to steady himself, head bowed low and chest heaving as he sucks in air in deep, shuddering gasps. Rivulets of sweat trickle down his forehead and his hair is drenched with it, coiling into tight corkscrew curls.

"What's wrong?" Florian asks, moving warily away from him. Those who are suffering from the grippe often exude a miasma which, his mother says, makes others around them unwell. "Are you sick?"

"I don't think so," Rayner says. His voice is thin and raspy, stripped of its usual rich, bass tones. "Not _sick_, exactly."

"Is this what you need my help with?" Florian guesses.

Rayner nods unsteadily. "Come with me," he says.

It's more of a command than a question, which Florian bristles at and is mulishly determined to defy.

But his curiosity gets the better of him and he does eventually relent and obey, wanting to find out what has stricken Rayner if it isn't an illness and, more than that, what had made him believe that Florian could aid him with it – believe in it strongly enough that he'd lower himself to ask for his assistance. 

Their progress through the lodge is slow and halting, as Rayner has to stop every so often to prop himself up against the nearest handy wall to rest and recover his breath. On the third such occasion, it occurs to Florian that he would be more capable of overpowering Rayner now than ever before. It probably wouldn't take much more than a quick, hard shove to send him crumpling to his knees.

The thought is a fleeting one, passing so quickly through his mind that it doesn't have chance to take root there and blossom into action. Mostly, he's just annoyed by the delay.

What feels as though it must be a good hour or so later, they finally arrive at a plain and unremarkable wooden door deep in the bowels of the building. 

"My bedroom," Rayner says. "Now, before you say anything – I already know it's a state. I haven’t really felt up to picking up after myself lately."

He pushes the door open onto a cramped room, smaller even than Florian's gaol cell, dimly lit by a couple of oil lamps and the sputtering flames of the dying fire in the hearth. There is a narrow window, set up high on the farthest wall from the door, but heavy curtains have been drawn across it, blocking out the sun.

Still, it's not dark enough to hide every sin. The lamps illuminate the huge stack of books piled messily on Rayner's desk and the dirty shirts hung from the back of the chair beside it, and the ubiquitous balled-up socks are scattered across the floor – the tell-tale spoor that marks a habitat as Rayner's own.

The air smells stale and musty, suggesting that that one tiny window hasn't been opened for a long while.

The furniture is as sparse as that in Florian's room; beside the desk, there is only a wardrobe, bookcase, and an armchair. The bed seems too small to accommodate Rayner's oversized carcass. It's barely large enough for Charlie, who is laid out there now, lolling face down on the rumpled sheets.

"Ey up, Flos," he says, lifting his head from the mattress. He only manages a couple of inches before his entire body starts to shake from the strain, and he lets it fall back down again. "Apologies, but no bow today. Can't manage one, on account of how I'm dying."

"No, you're not," Rayner snaps. To Florian, he reiterates in a milder tone, "He's not. At least, I don't think he is."

"You don't _think_ _so_?" Charlie groans. "You're always such a comfort to me, Jack. A paragon of fraternal—"

"Not now, Charlie," Rayner interrupts him testily. "Just… Just shut up for a minute or two, please." He shoots Florian a crooked smile. "As you can see, we're both a little worse for wear."

"Tempers are fraying," Charlie puts in, undeterred.

"Indeed," Florian says. For all his other faults, Rayner has always seemed to be kind and endlessly patient with Charlie, whose verbosity can be a little wearing on the nerves even when one is at the peak of good health. Hearing him be so short with his brother is an even surer sign than his stoop-backed posture and clammy skin that something is seriously wrong. "So, if you're certain you're not ill, despite all evidence to the contrary, what, exactly, do you think _is_ the matter?"

"Well, that's where you come in," Rayner says. "I have my suspicions about what it might be, but I wanted a second opinion before I do anything about it, so we don't go haring off half-cocked." He holds his hands out towards Florian, palms upraised. "Give me your hands."

"What?" Florian jumps back, crossing his arms firmly over his chest. "No, I won't."

"For fuck's sake, De Courcy; you're not going to catch anything." Rayner rolls his eyes heavenward. "And I'm not going to hurt you. I just want to take off your cuffs."

That seems too good to be true and is therefore most likely a trick, and Florian doesn't want to give Rayner the satisfaction of falling for it. He remains exactly where he is. "Why on earth would you want to do that?" he asks.

"Because I need you to be able to draw on the ambient magic," Rayner says. 

"Aren't you worried that I might use it against you afterwards? Sorry to say, Rayner, but you don't look as though you'd put up much of a fight at the moment."

"Not particularly," Rayner says. "I know you haven't got any reserves left right now and, trust me, you won't want to draw too much. You'll end up like me and Charlie if you do."

"So, there's something wrong with the magic here?" Florian asks. "Is that what this is?"

"I reckon so," Rayner says. "If I get those cuffs off you, you can see for yourself if you agree."

This time, when he reaches out, Florian gives him his hands gladly. The idea that magic could be twisted that way, become a poisonous thing, is such an unsettling one – so abhorrent – that it overcomes all his other reservations. He wants, desperately, to be able to prove that Rayner's mistaken.

Rayner unlocks the cuffs and they fall away to clatter against the floor. Florian had grown so used to their slight weight over the past couple of weeks that it's more noticeable by its absence. He shakes out his arms, flexes his fingers, and then draws.

Magic ebbs and flows, it has a pulse and heartbeat, and they're as familiar to Florian as his own. But the magic he pulls into himself now is discordant, its rhythm erratic – racing when it should be steady and smooth. 

But beneath that, there's something even worse. Something that smells rotten, where once there was the faint scent of meadowsweet and lilacs. Ice, instead of the warmth of a balmy spring day. 

Something that keens instead of whispers.

Sickened, he stops drawing it into himself; slams his walls up and closes himself off to the magic. The taste of old blood lingers at the back of his throat, coppery and thick.

"It's the Otherworld," Florian says, wiping his lips on the sleeve of his frockcoat. They feel soiled. "I think it's… It seems as though it's diseased, perhaps? Or maybe even decaying."

"Aye, that's what we thought." Rayner sighs deeply. "Fucking hell. I don't suppose you've read about anything like this, have you? Charlie and I are shit out of ideas on that score, I'm afraid."

"I haven't." Florian had always thought that the Otherworld was one of the great constants like the heavens – inviolate – as have all the authors he's ever read on the subject. "When did it start?"

"The day after I last saw you," Rayner says. "It wasn't this bad at first; barely even noticeable. There aren't any other magic users here to compare notes with, so we did just think we were just coming down with the grippe at first. It only started making us properly sick today, though. And if you don't draw for a while, the symptoms do go away in time."

"Then why didn't you stop as soon as you realised what it was doing to you?" Florian asks incredulously, as that would seem to be self-evident.

"Because I'm a mage, De Courcy." Rayner smiles ruefully. "I'm sure you haven't forgotten what that's like."

Most mages use magic like they breathe, giving it very little in the way of conscious thought. Florian certainly does, when he has access to it – from warming his tea and lighting his fire in the morning, to extinguishing his bedside lamps at night. It's a habit years that's been in the making, and he definitely wouldn't have been able to break it in less than a week if he hadn't had the ability stolen from him by cold iron first.

"Anyway," Rayner continues, "if _you_ haven't got any ideas about what might have caused this, then I guess we're going to have to go to the source and take a look for ourselves."

"To the Otherworld?" That seems unwise, potentially extremely dangerous, and, more than that, impossible. "And how do you propose to do that, exactly? My prince wouldn't take very kindly to you turning up at the royal palace and asking to be let in so you can make use of the circle in his cellars."

"Of course not," Rayner says. "I'll use a different gate."

"But there aren't any others in Northern Britannia," Florian says. "The Romans destroyed them all. Do you plan to travel to the one in Sorbiodūnum? Or Edina? I can't imagine the Caledonians liking that any better than Prince Dafydd, Rayner."

There are no other options than that, save the near-unthinkable one. The circles mark areas where the walls between the Otherworld and the mortal realm are the thinnest – half-open doors held closed by a lock made from enchanted stones.

But it is possible to tear a hole in those walls, to forge a new path, with powerful enough magic. Pure magic, like that of the Otherworld but born in the mortal realm, clarified by fire and then drawn from it. The sort Battle Mages and Sorcerers used to call on only when they were at war, when they were facing defeat and desperate, because it can rip a mage apart from the inside out if they're not strong enough to contain it.

Northern Britannia has been at peace since the Empire fled their shores, and it hasn't been used for centuries.

"Surely you don't mean to make your own gate?" Florian asks, aghast.

"I don't think our straits are quite that dire yet," Rayner says, shaking his head. "Naw, there is one other circle the Romans didn't manage to get their hands on, and it's not all that far from here. Just beyond the Earl of Cataractonium's estate, as it happens." 

His smile wavers a little at the edges but grows full and broad all the same. "Tomorrow, you'll be riding out with Charlie and me, High Mage. We're going to go and impose on my parents' hospitality for a while."


	15. Chapter 15

"Have you given any thought as to how you want to celebrate your birthday?" Florian's mother asked him one Templeday afternoon over their luncheon of roast beef with all the trimmings.

Florian's birthdays had always followed the same routine. Mother would buy him a couple of books from his reading list, and perhaps a new frockcoat or pair of boots if he was in need of them, and Grandmama would have knitted him an oversized, shapeless, and exceedingly thick hat or scarf that she would expect him to then don immediately despite it being midsummer. The three of them would eat dinner together, Mother and Grandmama drinking a toast to his health with their wine, whilst he was restricted to grape juice on account of his tender years.

At the end of it all, there would be fruit cake – the only kind Mother found even remotely healthful, what with fruit being a necessity for regular bowels.

"I hadn't," Florian said. "I'd assumed we'd be doing the same thing we always do."

"Of course not," Mother said. "You're coming of age, Edmund. That's a very important milestone in a young person's life."

Florian supposed that it was, after a fashion. There were all sorts of rights and responsibilities he would be granted, from being able to own his own property to marrying without his mother's consent, but on a personal level, it seemed unlikely much of anything would change. The transition from seventeen to eighteen had brought about no grand upheavals in his fundamental nature, and he couldn't imagine that nineteen would be any different.

And on a fundamental, personal level, Florian enjoyed their subdued celebrations, and the alternative filled him with dull horror.

"Are you suggesting we have a party?" he asked. To his dismay, Mother nodded in answer. "But you hate parties! Surely you didn't have one when you came of age?"

Mother nodded again. "Your grandmama arranged it. She put on a fine spread, and then afterwards there were card games and dancing."

She looked fondly reminiscent at the memory, which Florian could scarcely credit, as Mother claimed to detest both cards games and dancing. Most of her social circle was comprised of other doctors, healers, and apothecaries, and when they gathered together, it was to attend a lecture given by a preeminent expert in their field, or else to discuss the latest medical advances in quiet, earnest tones over brandy and cigars. To Florian, that had always seemed to be a pleasant and eminently sensible way of passing the time.

"I've got two left feet, I can't play cards, and, besides, I don't have anyone I could invite," Florian said – all three points perfectly true, and combined, antithetical to the very idea of his having a party, he would have thought.

"What about Olivia and Charlie?" Mother asked. "Aren't they friends of yours?"

"They are, but there's no-one else apart from them," Florian said. He shuddered to think of inviting Rhys into his home and giving him opportunity to find new things to sneer about, be it their furniture, decorations, or gods forbid, Florian's relations. "Five people can't possibly be enough for a party."

"They would suffice," Mother insisted. "You're going to have a party, Edmund. It's the proper thing to do."

And with that, Florian knew his fate was sealed and he would be doomed to spend an uncomfortable evening two months hence eating finger food, making polite small talk, and being cajoled into displaying his meagre skill at the pianoforte. Mother was rigid and uncompromising where _proper_ was concerned, and there would be no changing her mind.

"Of course, Mother," he sighed out, resigned. "A party it is, then."

* * *

For two weeks, nothing more was said about the party, which allowed Florian to harbour the hope that it might have since been forgotten.

That hope was cruelly quashed on Templeday of the third week, when Mother showed him the cardstock invitations she had bought for the grim occasion. They were decorated with a delicate pattern of curlicues and intertwined flowering vines around the edges and, at the centre, pre-printed with the usual formalities including blanks left to fill in the time and the place of the party, the invitee's name and that of their host.

When he saw what she had written in that last space, Florian winced. "You know I don't use that name at school," he said – gently, because he knew it was still a sore spot for Mother, even after nine years.

Mother pursed her lips in disapproval. "Edmund was your grandfather's name."  
  
"And Grandmama wishes now that she'd kept De Courcy instead of taking on Blenkinsop when they got married," Florian countered.

A familiar impasse, and one Florian had never known how to resolve. In this, if little else, he was just as stubborn as Mother could ever be, and categorically refused to back down.

"I presume you'll be changing your name officially when you've come of age, regardless of my thoughts on the matter?"

"I will." Florian had already made enquiries and procured the correct paperwork – all it needed now was his signature, once it had an adult's weight behind it. "Sorry, Mother."

"Very well," Mother said stiffly – a grudging acceptance, but acceptance all the same, when in the past she had never given the possibility any credence and dismissed it out of hand. There were already some benefits to Florian's coming of age even before he legally attained his majority, it seemed. "Fortunately, I ordered extra invitations, just in case."

She sat back down at her writing desk, and with a few, swift flourishes of her pen, filled in the correct details on three fresh invitations. Then, she took up a fourth.

"Who's that for?" Florian asked, eyeing it uneasily and wondering if they had any close relatives living nearby, hitherto unknown to him, that Mother might feel obliged to invite. Or yet worse – a son's nineteenth birthday party seemed just the sort of occasion that even a long-absent father might feel duty-bound to attend.

"Your roommate," Mother replied, which wasn't all that much of a reprieve.

"Rayner? Why on earth would I want to invite him? We're not friends, you know."

"I'm well aware," Mother said. "But you're inviting his younger brother, so it would be impolite not to include him, too. It wouldn't be—"

"Proper," Florian finished for her. As she'd been so unexpectedly gracious about the issue of his name, he didn't have the heart to remonstrate further and risk sparking a new argument when they'd only just avoided rehashing an old one. "Fine; please, go ahead."

At least he could console himself with the thought that it was highly unlikely that Rayner would even want to attend.

* * *

Florian delivered his first two invitations immediately upon returning to the College, and both Olivia and Charlie seemed happy, perhaps even bordering on eager to accept them.

The third he kept safely stowed away inside his coat pocket throughout a long afternoon spent studying in the library and thereafter his dinner hour. He caught sight of Rayner on several occasions during that time – loitering around in the corridor outside the library; meandering through the stacks inside it, idly leafing through a number of books that he subsequently then neglected to take out; and eating his own bowl of odious chicken stew at a far distant table in the dining room – and whenever he did, Florian's hand would fall to that hidden envelope, his fingers would grip hold of it, but he couldn't quite muster the courage to take it out.

The potential for public humiliation was just too high. If the worst-case scenario did happen, and Rayner laughed uproariously and mocked Florian for the assumed presumption inherent in that invitation, instead of just telling him he didn’t much fancy attending his party, then Florian would much rather it happened in private.

But even when they were alone in their room at the end of the evening, Florian's courage remained elusive. Rayner was absorbed in his journal as he was most nights, not paying him so much as a lick of attention, and, though Florian did eventually manage to withdraw the invitation from his pocket, he stalled there before he could complete the final, most important step of the process.

The envelope was looking a little dog-eared, the paper torn at the edges due to his incessant worrying at it. 

It was in no fit state to be handed over now; Mother would be mortified by the idea of it if she were there. He should probably just rip it up, dispose of it, and ask Mother for a replacement. Which he could then conveniently forget to do.

"Are you all right, De Courcy?" Rayner asked, and when Florian looked across at him, there was a faint nick of concern etched between his drawn-together eyebrows. "You've been glaring at that envelope for the past ten minutes or more. Are you expecting it to be bad news?"

Unwittingly, Rayner had provided the perfect opening, and Florian forced himself to take advantage of it. "Well, that's for you to decide," he said. "It's not for me, it's for you."

"Oh?" Rayner plucked the envelope from Florian's outstretched hand cautiously, as though afraid it might explode. "What is it?"

"Such things do generally remain a mystery until one opens the envelope, Rayner," Florian said.

"Right." Rayner laughed softly. "I'll get on that, then."

Although his words seemed to suggest swift resolution, and an equally swift end to the sick, fluttering, trepidatious feeling in the pit of Florian's stomach, he instead simply stared at the envelope for entirely too long, his eyes flickering back and forth as they traced the lines of his name written there in Mother's most elegant copperplate hand.

When he did spring into action, it was not only swift but violent – ripping the envelope from end to end and practically tearing the invitation out from within.

That, too, he inspected for far longer than its short length deserved, his eyebrows twitching up and down in an indecipherable pattern, and even mouthing some of the words silently to himself along the way.

"It's an invitation to your coming of age party," he observed pointlessly afterwards. "You could have just asked me, you know. This all seems a bit formal."

"My mother insisted on it." On the invitation, on _Rayner_, and the whole, wretched party. "She's very particular about that sort of thing."

"Right." Rayner nodded firmly. "I'd love to come."

Despite this seemingly ready acceptance, Florian's anxiety didn't abate, because he was waiting for the other shoe to drop; for Rayner to tell him that he was only willing to attend because it had to be better than spending yet another night revising, or that he wanted to keep an eye on Charlie. For him to laugh for a second time and announce that he'd only been joking.

But Rayner didn't say anything more, and it soon became clear that his answer was the start and the end of it – for some unknown, unfathomable reason, he truly would 'love to come' to Florian's party.

Florian was so taken aback by that realisation that it took him an embarrassingly long while to scrape together enough coherent thought to offer Rayner something approaching basic courtesy: "We'll be glad to have you."

"Do you need it in writing?" Rayner asked.

"Not on my account," Florian said, "but I'm sure my mother would appreciate that."

"Then it's done," Rayner said, and then he smiled – wide and so brightly that Florian could hardly bear to look at him. "Thanks for inviting me, De Courcy; I'll look forward to it."

* * *

On the day of his party, Florian left school and went home early, hours before it was due to start, ostensibly to help his mother arrange the last-minute details. In actuality, it was in an effort to distract himself and quell his steadily mounting nerves.

He flitted about the place, straightening the hang of paintings that were already level, moving ornaments a fraction of an inch to the left and then back to the right again, and checking in on the cook's progress with dinner so often that she threatened to brain him with her wooden spoon.

This constant, pointless motion was apparently so grating to Mother's own nerves that they eventually snapped, and she ordered him to stop faffing about and sit down, then handed him a glass brimming full of red wine to keep his hands occupied.

"We're celebrating," she said in response to his shocked and questioning look. "And you're an adult now; I trust you'll be sensible."

Wary after his last, thoroughly unpleasant experience with alcohol at the Moon Festival years before, Florian took only a tiny taste of the wine. It was even more noisome than the cider had been – bitter and tannin-heavy – but just as warming, too. Relaxing, in a way that was sorely needed. Every subsequent sip he took was larger than the last, and by the time Grandmama arrived and Mother stopped by to top up his glass, he'd almost reached the bottom of it.

That second glass was mostly done when the doorbell sounded again, and it helped insulate Florian against the dread he'd been certain he'd feel when he heard it. Instead, he met the sound with equanimity, plastered on a smile, and joined Mother and Grandmama in the hallway to greet the rest of his guests.

Mother opened the door to reveal Rayner standing on their top step, caught in a moment of impatience and reaching once more for the doorbell pull as, presumably, his summons hadn't been answered promptly enough for his liking.

For the first time since they met, Rayner was dressed smartly in a frockcoat, breeches and highly polished boots. All the clothes were surprisingly fashionable, closely cut and well-tailored. It was not an unflattering look on him.

He gave Mother a stately bow. "Ms De Courcy." And another to Grandmama. "Mrs De Courcy."

Thankfully, neither of them saw the need to correct him.

"You must be Rayner," Mother said, shaking his hand.

"Or Jack, if you prefer," Rayner said in a strangely smooth tone Florian had never heard him affect before.

"Jack," Mother repeated warmly, "please come in."

Rayner was closely followed by Olivia, who looked radiant in a full-skirted blue silk dress, and lastly Charlie, who seemed distinctly uncomfortable in his own frockcoated finery, face flushed and tugging compulsively at his shirt collar.

"Everything pinches!" he confided to Florian in an undertone when he passed him by.

Mother had thankfully abandoned her initial plans for a buffet in favour of a formal meal, which would furnish everyone with something to talk about when the conversation inevitably lulled: speculation about the next course, compliments on the current one, and requests to pass the salt cellar or butter dish if all else failed.

Thanks to some judicious manoeuvring when they all trooped into the dining room, Florian managed to arrange himself so that he was positioned between Olivia and Charlie when they took their seats at the table. Unfortunately, that did leave Rayner with no option other than to seat himself next to Mother, and throughout the soup course, Florian paid more attention to listening to their conversation than taking part in the one Olivia and Charlie were trying to have with him.

Contrary to his fears, Rayner was perfectly civil – even engaging – and in those few minutes of eavesdropping, he heard nothing to trouble him, only Rayner heaping the usual, expected praises on the dining room's layout and décor. Thus pacified, Florian could return his attention to where it was due, to Olivia and Charlie, for the remaining four courses.

And throughout those courses, the wine flowed freely. By the end of them, Mother was pink-cheeked and bright-eyed, and before they all made their way into the drawing room for cards, she pulled Florian aside to inform him that she thought Rayner was 'positively delightful'.

She was never normally so effusive; had never described anyone of her acquaintance as 'delightful' before, much less 'positively' so. Florian suspected that she might be a bit raddled.

He was well on the way there himself, and was far too easily cajoled into plinking his way ineptly through a number of tunes at the pianoforte, egged on by the applause he received at the close of each piece – a balm to his wounded soul after having humiliated himself by losing every hand of cards he had played.

Grandmama had started tapping her feet, presaging a desire to dance, and Florian thought it best to find somewhere else to be for a while. Given the current buoyancy of his mood, he was afraid that he might agree to join in.

He wandered aimlessly around the ground floor for a while before deciding that perhaps, in certain, very specific instances, Mother and Master Taylor might have the right idea about the benefits of going outside. With movement, his nausea was rising, and a good dose of cool, fresh air seemed as though it would be just the ticket to ensure that he didn't ruin his own birthday by blacking out or throwing up on someone's shoes again.

In the back garden, the night air was crisp and refreshingly bracing, and it appeared that he was not the only one who had found themselves in need of it. Rayner was standing only a few feet away, staring fixedly up at the sky, just as he had in the Otherworld.

Normally, the sight would have sent Florian fleeing back inside again, but – perhaps because Rayner had been so pleasant and personable towards Mother and Grandmama all evening, or perhaps just because of the wine – his feelings towards Rayner were uncharacteristically cordial.

He drew closer instead of moving away, and asked, "What are you doing out here, Rayner?"

"Just looking at the stars," Rayner said, even as he looked away from them to smile at Florian. "And trying to sober up a bit; your mum's got a very generous hand with the wine."

"And no-one's more surprised about that than I am, believe me," Florian said. "She's normally very temperate, and she's certainly never encouraged me to drink before."

"She doesn't have to worry about you stunting your growth anymore, though, does she?"

It was only with those words that Florian realised their eyes were on the same level now, that they were finally of a height; he'd been too preoccupied by more important matters to notice the change, despite the many years he'd spent resenting Rayner for looming so tall over him.

"I suppose not," he said, quietly pleased.

"Anyway, I'm not complaining," Rayner said. "It's a good party, De Courcy. You're lucky you get to have this; I don't suppose I'll be able to celebrate my own coming of age until long after it's been and gone."

His birthday was just two weeks before their final tests were scheduled to take place, and Florian supposed that even Rayner might finally buckle down and concentrate on his revision by that late stage in the game.

"What do you intend on doing with yourself after our tests?" Rayner continued.

"I want to work for the King someday," Florian said. It might be a longshot – practically a pipe dream – but he didn't feel any shame in admitting as much, even so. Most mages of any skill had the same aspiration. "Perhaps even join his personal cadre. What about you?"

"I haven't given it much thought, really." Rayner shrugged. "If nothing else, I can always go home and help my da run the place."

That would be an ignoble ending, even for Rayner. All his training frittered away helping his father… do whatever it was Rayner's father did. Florian still didn't have the first clue what that might be, but he doubted it was anything that would provide much of a test to the skills of a College-trained mage. Then again, Rayner had never struck him as someone possessing any great ambition or hunger to succeed – if he had, then he would have applied himself better at school, no matter how 'naturally talented' he might be.

Perhaps working with his father would be enough for him.

"Hey, before I get any more wine inside me and forget, I have something for you," Rayner said. He fished around in the inner pocket of his frockcoat, producing a small, cloth-wrapped package which he then thrust abruptly into Florian's hands.

The cloth was held closed with a length of dark ribbon, fastened with a loose bow, and both fell away easily when Florian gave it a light tug, revealing a small book bound in cracked and peeling leather. He angled it into the faint light bleeding out through the dining room window at their backs, so he could better read the letters embossed on the spine. They were faded with age, missing the gilt that had once highlighted them, but still just about legible: _My Travels with the Fae_ by _Dylan Evans_.

"Oh, fuck," Florian breathed out in wonder. "This is… incredible, it's… I've been looking for a copy of this for years "

"Aye, well, Charlie picked it out," Rayner said gruffly, shuffling his feet. "I just paid for it."

As the book was the first that its esteemed author ever published, it'd only had a short print run, and Evans had later dismissed it as 'embarrassing juvenilia', asking that any remaining unsold copies be pulped. It was as rare as the proverbial hen's teeth and must have cost a small fortune as a consequence. 

Florian should probably have insisted that it was too much, that Rayner should take it back, but he just couldn't bring himself to do so. The book was far too precious and, he reasoned, if there was any good time to be a little greedy and selfish, then a person's coming of age birthday party was probably it.

"Thank you so much, Rayner," he said, smiling at him. "I'll treasure it."

Rayner's answering smile was small and brittle-looking. He sighed out a long, faltering breath and said, "De Courcy, I…"

And then no more. Although he opened and closed his mouth several more times, no words were forthcoming. The lack of them seemed to frustrate him, judging by his frown and the way his hands kept clenching into fists at his side.

"What is it, Rayner?" Florian prompted when his silence stretched worryingly long. "Are you all right?"

"I'm…" Rayner blinked slowly, like a person rousing from deep sleep, and then shook his head as though freeing himself from the last, wispy vestiges of its attendant dreams. "I was just going to say that we should be getting back inside," he said, his voice regaining its normal strength and – excessive – volume. "Your mum's probably wondering where we've disappeared off to."

Florian was almost certain that he'd been poised to say no such thing. Such a banal comment wouldn't have led to so much twitching and stalling, and so many false starts. He fretted over it for a spell, imagining ever more outlandish reasons for Rayner's apparent reticence to speak, but then Mother's 'generous hand' got the wine flowing freely again, and he soon forgot that it had ever happened at all, never mind having the mental faculties to continue speculating about its cause.


	16. Chapter 16

Rayner had warned Florian that they'd need to make an early start if they were to reach his family's estate at a decent hour, and Florian had steeled himself as best he could for the prospect of rising with the sun.

As it is, dawn hasn't even started cracking when he's awoken from sleep by a whey-faced young servant who looks upon him with an expression of unmitigated horror when he pokes his head out from the cocoon of bedclothes he had wound around himself over the course of the night.

Florian can scarcely blame the lad, as he no doubt looks like some manner of wild animal which has been prematurely roused from its much-needed hibernation. Once freed from the rigid confines of the College's timetables and his mother's expectations, the hours he kept had trended ever later, and for the past decade, it's been his habit to stay up long past midnight reading and then sleep halfway to lunchtime. He's lost the knack for greeting mornings with anything close to good grace.

"High Mage Rayner is waiting for you in the stableyard, High Mage De Courcy," the lad says, his voice as high and thin as a mouse's squeak. He keeps his gaze deferentially lowered and his weight on his back foot, perhaps fearing magical retribution for the untimely wake-up call he'd had no choice but to make. "I'll leave you to… freshen up and get ready, then I'll take you down to meet him."

He flees before Florian has chance to reassure him that he'd never send a fireball his way just for performing his duty – no matter how loathsome it might be – even if he did have access to his power, and then slams the door closed so firmly behind him that all the dilapidated furniture in the room judders from the impact.

It takes Florian a long moment to disentangle himself from his bedclothes, which put up a spirited defence against his escape at every turn, and an even longer one to summon the fortitude to step foot out of bed. He stumbles to the washbasin, splashes tepid water on his face, brushes his teeth, and then takes several long, deep, steadying breaths before stripping off his nightshirt. 

There is no fire yet set in the hearth, and the air is cold enough to sting, so the rest of his ablutions are completed at a rapid clip and more perfunctorily than is his usual wont. He doesn't have the energy to spare for arranging his hair until it settles into something resembling a style, so just runs a brush through it until it stops sticking straight up from his head, then dresses in the most flattering outfit he has been able to piece together from the clothing Charlie had brought him. He will, after all, be meeting with nobility later that day.

All his hard-won efforts are wasted on the servant lad, who doesn't even look at him before setting off at a brisk trot down the tower stairs. At a more sensibly sedate pace, Florian follows him through the lodge and out into the grounds, past the orchard he'd so often looked upon from above, and on to a stableyard sparsely illuminated by a handful of sputtering oil lamps.

Rayner and Fox are already seated on the destriers they had ridden out to capture Florian, and there is no groom in evidence, so it falls on Charlie to bring Florian his mount.

He'd been expecting to be subjected to Buttons the pony again but is pleasantly surprised to be presented with a rangy bay gelding with a high-stepping walk and an intelligent eye.

"His name's Apricot," Charlie informs him.

"_Apricot_?" Florian repeats, nonplussed. All Prince Dafydd's horses are named after heroes of history and myth – regal names befitting their proud nature. "Who on earth is naming these poor creatures?"

"His Highness' horse master has an odd sense of humour," Charlie says. "I think she just sticks a pin in a random page of the dictionary when the time comes. Jack's mare" – huge and heavily muscled with a glossy pitch-black coat – "is called Buttercup, mine's Pork Chop, and Fox's is Happenstance. You get used to it." He shrugs and then inclines his head towards the unfortunately named Apricot. "Do you need a leg-up?"

Florian wishes he could spurn the offer, but he's never been able to master the art of getting into the saddle unaided from the ground and there doesn't appear to be a mounting block on offer. "Please," he says.''

Charlie boosts him up with such energetic enthusiasm that Florian is almost propelled clear over the other side of the horse. He only just manages to save himself from dashing his skull against the cobbles by a quick and desperate grab at a hank of the horse's mane, which he uses as leverage to haul himself into a sitting position astride the saddle. Thankfully, a quick, slantwise glance reassures him that Rayner and Fox are too preoccupied with one another to have noticed his flailing slip, and thus he's been spared from that indignity as well as a concussion.

He draws himself up tall, back ramrod straight just as he'd been taught by Prince Dafydd's own horse master.

There's a trace of laughter dancing in Charlie's eyes, but he's kind enough not to give voice to it. "Right, now you're safely on board, I'll go and fetch Pork Chop," he says. "I hope you're comfortable up there, Flos; we're in for a long ride today."

* * *

Florian's own horse, Pwyll, is a steady beast – a schoolmaster – trained to take part in riding demonstrations and royal parades. Nothing fazes him – not cheering crowds, or flapping flags and ringing bells, or even small children hoisted up onto their parents' shoulders who stick their fingers into his nostrils or tug on his mane.

Apricot sees danger lurking in every shrub and blade of grass they pass, and spends more time travelling sideways than forwards, shying away from them and the invisible wolves and bears he must imagine they conceal.

Florian is far from comfortable, and so preoccupied with the simple act of staying on-board the horse that he can pay only the scantest of attention to the long-winded tales Charlie persists in trying to tell him. 

This abstraction eventually drives Charlie away in search of a slightly more engaged audience than Florian is currently capable of providing him with, and when he moves ahead to catch up with Fox, Rayner drops back from her side, reining his horse around to ride next to Florian's.

For a while, Florian ignores Rayner too, but he can't help but to keep catching glimpses of him out of the corner of his eye whenever Apricot's skittish steps send them lurching that way. He's staring at Florian with entirely too much focus, as he sometimes used to when they were students together. Just as it was then, the rest of his expression is completely inscrutable, though Florian has always taken it to be a judgemental look. He had never dared to inquire as to the reason for it in his younger years but feels no such scruples now that he doesn’t have to worry about maintaining the concord of their dorm room.

"Is something wrong, Rayner?" he asks.

"Not at all," Rayner says. "You've got a good seat."

"You sound surprised."

"I wouldn't have thought riding was your sort of thing," Rayner says. "You were never much interested in sports at school."

Nor was he afterwards, but he'd no choice other than learn to ride so that he could join those royal parades which Prince Dafydd insisted he take part in, all decked out in his court finery. His mother and grandmama had never kept horses, and at first, he'd been terrified of them with their huge teeth, twitchy natures, and formidable and potentially fatal back legs. But he'd surprised _himself_ by taking to riding both naturally and easily, in a way he never had before with any practical skill save for magic. He quite enjoys the exercise in the normal course of things, when his mount isn't actively engaged in trying to launch him from its back, as Apricot seems set and determined to do.

"People do change, Rayner," he says.

"Aye, I suppose so." There's something a little rueful about the twist of Rayner's lips when he smiles. "Well, it's a good thing, too, because we're going to be about ten hours in the saddle if we keep up our current pace, and we'll have to stop at an inn at some point so we can rest the horses and eat. 

"I wish I could still use my magic. Hells, I wish _both_ of us could, then I could've translocated all of us halfway there, and you could take us the rest."

Rayner's family estate lies around forty miles to the north of the lodge, and most mages would struggle to translocate themselves alone for even a quarter of that distance. Florian is numbered amongst them, which Rayner surely knows, having borne first-hand witness to Florian's years-long struggle to come somewhere within spitting distance of proficiency in the casting of that particular spell.

He can only surmise, then, that Rayner's words had been meant as a boast – to rub Florian's nose in the fact that, after all the years Florian has spent researching, practicing and perfecting their shared art, Rayner is still the most powerful of the two of them by far.

He refuses to humour Rayner by rising to his bait – refuses to demur or fawn or admit his own failures – so he instead says, "Yes, it is a pity," in a carefully inflectionless voice.

Rayner nods, and then casts his gaze back towards Charlie and Fox. Florian expects him to follow it bodily in short order, now that his petty game of self-aggrandisement has been thwarted, but he doesn't. 

He remains riding alongside Florian for the remainder of the morning, albeit in complete silence.

* * *

The sky is shading gloaming-dark when Rayner announces that they are finally entering his family's lands. Florian could weep for joy upon hearing it – after so long spent in the saddle, every part of him feels sore, even his hair, which he would have thought to be an anatomical impossibility.

They follow a narrow, gravelled path that wends its way through acres upon endless acres of pasture bounded by dry stone walls, passing by several neat, yellow-brick houses – home to the estate's tenant farmers – and a fast-flowing stream which feeds a small lake – home to a pike which nearly bit Rayner's fingers clean off his hand when they were lads, according to Charlie.

Beyond farms and farmers, the path skims the foot of a steep hill cloaked in a dense stand of trees at its summit, and thereafter widens as the land begins to flatten out, soon becoming a broad driveway which sweeps them inexorably towards the estate house itself.

Having briefly met the Earl himself, and being long familiar with Rayner's slovenly and lackadaisical habits, Florian had imagined their home would be a sprawling, decrepit affair, with boarded-up windows, holes in its roof, and half-swallowed up by overgrown vegetation. But its formal gardens appear to be carefully tended, and the house itself is a large, sturdy building of clean grey stone – a little plain, perhaps, lacking the fluted columns and elaborately carved cornices that proliferated in abundance upon manor houses built following the Roman withdrawal from Britannia, but still handsome in a stately, old-fashioned way.

Rayner's impatient tug on the doorbell pull at the front door is answered first by a footman, and shortly thereafter by the butler, dressed in a smart livery of black tailcoat and trousers.

"Lord Jonathan," he says, bowing low to Rayner. "Lord Charles." Then to Charlie. "Ms Fox." And Fox. There is a small but noticeable pause wherein the butler's eyebrows draw infinitesimally closer together before he adds: "High Mage De Courcy."

His subsequent bow towards Florian is several degrees less deep than the three that had preceded it.

"Ey up, Jenkins," Rayner says, which makes the butler's brow bristle even more fiercely. "Are my ma and da about?"

"Lady Katherine is in Londinium, My Lord, attending a symposium of the Royal College," Jenkins says. "Lord Henry is in the conservatory. If you'd—"

Jenkins steps forwards, doubtless intending to lead them to the Earl, but Rayner bustles past him unheeding, leaving Jenkins frowning exasperatedly in his wake.

Their short walk to the conservatory is made at such great speed that Florian doesn't have the opportunity to take stock of his surroundings beyond some brief, snatched glimpses of parquet wood underfoot, the blurred yet vibrant colours of paintings and tapestries hung on the walls, and brass fittings buffed to such a fine finish that they gleam, a tiny constellation of brighter points of light, glittering in the otherwise dimly lit corridors they travel down.

The conservatory itself is a huge, stone-flagged room made small by the sheer number of plants crammed into it: large and small, lush and spindly, growing from earthenware pots, wooden troughs, and even what looks to be an array of old wine casks, cut in half. In the one, small corner of the room that is free from them, there is a long, low wickerwork sofa and a plump leather armchair upon which the Earl of Cataractonium is seated, his nose buried deep in a book.

Save for a few more grey hairs gathered at his temples, he looks unchanged from when Florian last saw him, during their brief meeting at the palace. He has Rayner's height and breadth, Charlie's paunch and soft features, and the unkempt appearance that is seemingly a family trait: his pale trousers darkened at the knees with soil and grass stains, his jaw shadowed with stubble, and his shirtsleeves rolled up to the crooks of his elbows.

"Da," Rayner says in his usual, uncouth, strident manner, and then, when his father doesn't respond, he somehow finds enough breath to bellow it out even louder, "Da!"

The Earl startles, blinking owlishly first at Rayner, then at Charlie. He smiles broadly.

"Ah, this is an unexpected pleasure! Sons major and minor, and is that the estimable Ms Fox I see?" The Earl rises from his seat and offers Fox a courtly bow. "I hope you're doing well, my dear."

"I am, thank you, My Lord," Fox says, returning the bow.  
  
The Earl shakes his head. "As I told you the last time we met – please, call me Henry." His eyes widen slightly when he spots Florian over Fox's shoulder. "And who's this?" he asks Rayner.

"High Mage De Courcy," Rayner says.

"De Courcy. De Courcy." The Earl's brow furrows briefly in thought. "Oh, yes, the great-great grandson of the vicomte who had to exeunt Gallia stage left, pursued by creditors. You were friends with my lads at school, weren't you? Shared a room with Jack? He never stopped talking about—"

"Aye, that's the one, Da," Rayner cuts in swiftly, his cheeks flushing crimson, no doubt interrupting his father from recounting some dreadful slander against Florian's name he had passed on in their youth.

Likely, he'd complained long and hard about Florian's deplorable preference for clean living quarters and something approaching peace and quiet when he was trying to study, and it was no wonder, then, that the Earl had seemed so unimpressed by him when they first met. He would have been predisposed to think the worst of him from the start.

Hoping to rectify that poor first impression by at least some small measure, Florian bows almost double to the Earl and says in his most respectful tone, "My Lord."

"Henry," he is reminded in an distracted fashion. "I thought you were Prince Dafydd's man." To Jack he says, "You're not working for _him_ now, are you?"

"No, Da; this has nothing to do with court, his or Prince Caerwyn's. We're here on mage business."

The Earl looks almost awestruck. "Well, in that case, you can consider me entirely at your disposal. Anything you need, you just have to ask." He checks his pocket watch, eyebrows arcing high in what appears to be surprise at the lateness of the hour. "How about a spot of supper, to start? There should be some veal pie left over from dinner, and the cook made an excellent apple crumble."

They haven't eaten since lunchtime, when they'd stopped at an insalubrious roadside inn and Florian had choked down a few mouthfuls of gristly sausage and lumpy mashed potato. Veal pie and apple crumble sounds _heavenly_, and his stomach growls in anticipation.

But Rayner shakes his head. "I don't know about anyone else, but I'm too knackered to eat. I just want to get to bed; we've had a long day."

Charlie and Fox nod their agreement, so Florian feels it would be churlish to do anything other than join in.

The Earl dismisses them with his best wishes for a restful night's sleep, and rings for a footman to escort Florian to the room that will be his for the duration of their stay.

Like the rest of the house, it is old-fashioned, but also just as well-maintained – the ancient, bulky furniture so impeccably polished that it almost seems new-built. 

The focal point of the room is the four-poster bed, canopied and curtained with thick red velvet. As soon as the footman has taken his leave, Florian sprawls out onto it, thinking only of taking the weight off his tired legs. But the mattress is wide and wonderfully thick, so much more comfortable than the lumpen monstrosity that he has been forced to endure of late in his gaol cell that his eyelids begin to sag as if on reflex, and he likely would have slipped easily into sleep in short order had he not been shocked into full wakefulness a few moments later by a knock at the door.

"Are you decent?" Rayner calls out, though Florian isn't sure why he's bothering to ask – given his recent routine of materialising in Florian's room without so much of a breath of warning, it's only been a matter of luck and coincidently fortuitous timing that he hasn't already caught Florian in a state of undress, so the prospect has obviously never given him enough cause to inspire good manners before.

Much as Florian would like to tell him no, he's in a state so horribly _in_decent that he's not fit for human eyes, so Rayner should piss right back off again and leave him alone, he can't bring himself to do so. This is Rayner's house and he is Florian's host, of sorts, and as a host he is due a base level of politeness, even if it is most grudgingly given.

"I am," he says, scrambling up to sit on the edge of the bed. "Please, come in."

Rayner enters the room carrying a plate piled high with slices of bread, cooked meat, and cheese, and perched perilously atop of them, a chunk of veal pie. There is some kind of garment slung over his other arm, but it's so badly crumpled that Florian can't tell what it might be.

"You seemed disappointed about missing out on supper, so I thought I'd bring you a bite to eat," Rayner says, handing Florian the plate. "And seeing as though you didn't pack a bag, I reckoned you'd be needing a nightshirt, too."

"Thank you for both, Rayner," Florian says, setting the plate down on the nightstand beside the bed. "Much appreciated."

Rayner tosses the nightshirt onto the foot of the mattress, and Florian expects him to then bid him a good night and take his leave. But instead he gazes around himself abstractedly and says, "What do you think of the room? It used to be my Uncle Edwin's."

"That would be the Earl's brother who… met with an unfortunate hunting accident?" Florian asks.

The rumour around court was that he'd spent the best part of a day drinking to the memory of his older brother, who had died in an equally sotted boating accident the year prior, and been so raddled that he'd slipped off his horse and broken his neck before the hunt even began.

"Naw, that was Thomas. Edwin was the one who died of Fisherman's Lung."

A terrible disease caused by a noxious and particularly long-lived miasma. Florian hurriedly gets to his feet, wiping his hands vigorously against the front of his frockcoat.

"For heaven's sake, De Courcy; that was over _thirty years ago_," Rayner says sharply. "The bedclothes have been changed a fair few times since then. The mattress too, come to think of it. You'll be fine. Anyway, enjoy the food and get some sleep if you can still bring yourself to use the bed. I'll be up to fetch you for breakfast around seven tomorrow morning."

That said, he turns on his heel and stalks out of the room. For a long while after he's left, Florian simply stares at the food he'd brought, which seems somehow spoilt now given its inauspicious surroundings. His appetite gets the better of him eventually, though, and he chances a tiny nibble at one corner of the pie. It's not a patch on even the humblest of dishes prepared in Prince Dafydd's kitchens, but still so superior to the tasteless slop fed to him at the lodge that it tastes far better in that moment than the very pinnacle of Gallian culinary excellence.

He eats until his stomach is aching and then, full and content at last, starts nodding off over his empty plate, barely keeping his eyes open again. He changes lazily into the nightshirt, letting his clothes fall to the floor where they may, and falls back onto the bed, pulling the heavy sheets and coverlet up over him.

The bedclothes are warm, the mattress as soft as a blanket of new spring grass. Practically in the same instant his head hits the pillow, he falls into the deepest, soundest night's sleep he's experienced in weeks.

* * *

  
After breakfast the next day, Rayner sits his father and Fox down to tell them the bare bones of their plan. It's not that much more than a skeleton of an idea at the moment, anyway – they will travel to the Otherworld, try to find out what's been poisoning the magic there, and put a stop to it if they can.

"I should come with you, Jack," Fox says. "So I can guard your back like I'm supposed to."

"Any other time, I'd be glad of that, but you _can't_ come with us," Rayner says. "You’d wouldn’t be able to cross over the border unless one of the fae were to take you. Only mages can use the circles.

"Anyway, time runs differently in the Otherworld, so we'll likely be away for at least a few days. If we’re not back within a week, then we've probably gone and got ourselves into a whole heap of shit we can't get out of, and I want you to ride to the College in Eboracum and ask for Master Hainsworth. Hopefully she'll be able rustle up some way of dragging us out of it."

The Earl provides them with packs full of dried fruit, nuts, and cured meat from the kitchens, to sustain them on their journey so they're not tempted into eating any Otherworldly food, thus risking binding themselves to that realm and the fae, and then they're back in the saddle again.

Thankfully, they have only a short ride ahead of them, not even an hour, but one night's decent sleep hadn't been sufficient to recover from the travails of the previous day, and the long muscles in Florian's thighs feel to be strained close to snapping and all the tender spots on his skin are rubbed raw.

The circle Rayner escorts them to is buried deep underground, just like the one below the palace, and the journey down to it, through steeply sloping natural corridors carved through the rock by some long-dry stream, seems endless, especially as Rayner – who seems untroubled by aches and pains and a sore tailbone – sets a punishingly quick pace that Florian cannot hope to match.

At its lowest point, the corridor opens up onto a wide, high-ceilinged cave, at the centre of which lies a ring of stalagmites, marking out an invisible door. The air feels thick and heavy, but Florian can sense no magic in it until Rayner takes out his rusty key and frees him from his cuffs once more.

Then the magic tears at him, lashing thin lines of fire across every inch of his exposed skin. It's sickening, and for the first time in his life, he wants to push it away and flee from it.

He can't even begin to imagine drawing _this_ into his body, but Rayner does. He draws until his entire body starts to sweat and shake from the strain of it – shake so hard that he can barely hold his hand steady enough to trace the runes required to complete the spell to open the door.

It's far from the nonchalant, almost offhand way he normally casts his spells, and Florian fears this one may not even complete, but eventually the stones do resound to his voice, and a feeble light sparks within them, gradually spreading out to encompass the circle entire.

"After you, De Courcy," Rayner says, giving a surprisingly strong nudge to the small of Florian's back.

He steps forward into the light, and then out into an Otherworld he doesn't recognise. 

Whenever he's visited the realm before, it has been bathed in the light of the midsummer sun, bright and warm, and the grass has been green from horizon to far horizon.

Now the sky is dark, obscured by heavy grey clouds shot through with tendrils of some creeping black substance and arcs of crackling lightning. The air carries a winter's chill, and the grass beneath his feet is shrivelled and browning.

"What the—"

Before he can complete his next word, or even his next breath, something strikes him, sharp and hard, at the base of his skull, and he falls back into an even deeper darkness.


	17. Chapter 17

The air in Master Hainsworth's office was heavy and parched, made stifling by the hearth fire built far too high for the heat of the day and eddying clouds of dust, which danced and shimmered in the shafts of late-summer sun piercing the tall windows behind her desk.

Deep drifts off the stuff – perhaps months or even years in the making – had settled atop the piles of books crammed higgedly-piggedly into the overstuffed shelves that covered two walls of the room: scholarly tomes of magical theory abutting florid romance novels; leather-bound ancient epics in the original High Imperial sandwiched between tattered penny dreadfuls.

There seemed to be no rhyme or reason behind their placement, and for the preceding quarter of an hour, Florian had occupied himself by mentally rearranging them – grouping like with like, ordered by publication date, and taking great imaginary satisfaction in discarding those volumes that were damaged beyond easy repair or he simply did not care for.

It helped to distract him from the tightness of his chest, the sweat trickling down his spine, and the niggling worry that Master Hainsworth had invited him there to impart some terrible news.

He'd only once before been called into her office – the day she told him that he was to take his final tests far sooner than he could ever have dreamt possible. Despite his best efforts at diversion, he could not quite shake the fear that she was about similar business now; that all of the evenings, Templedays, and holidays that he'd given over to his studies had been in vain, and she thought it would be more sensible to defer those tests until he was better prepared for them.

He had known that that coming of age party his mother insisted on hosting was bound to be a bad idea from the start. It had taken him two days to recover from its excesses – two days of revision wasted. That might have been just enough to condemn him to another year at school, waiting to be thought good enough at his art to graduate

"What do you think she wants to talk to us about?" he asked Rayner, seated next to him on the horribly uncomfortable sofa. 

It was the third time he had asked the question, and for the third time, Rayner replied, "I have no idea. We'll just have to wait and see."

Which wasn't in the least bit comforting. Florian had no idea why he'd even entertained the idea that his answer might be otherwise, in this iteration or any of the previous ones.

Rayner was so damnably calm, seemingly unruffled by their situation and its inherent uncertainties. If they troubled him at all, there was no evidence of it in either his expression or his posture, both of which were loose and relaxed.

Florian would find no compassion there – no empathy or spark of fellow feeling. Instead, he turned again to seek some measure of solace in the books, and had just embarked upon cataloguing the jumbled mess of them on the shelves nearest the door when Master Hainsworth burst through it.

She strode energetically across the room, hopped up to perch on the edge of her desk, and then beamed a bright smile down upon Florian and Rayner.

"I have good news for you, gentlemen," she said. "The King's High Mage is an old friend of mine, and he keeps me abreast of the latest happenings at the palace. Just last month, he told me that the Crown Prince has begun building his own, personal mage cadre, and is looking for new blood to join it – young people with fresh ideas. I mentioned the two of you to him, hoping that he might pass along your names for consideration, and, well…

"I didn't want to say anything ahead of time, in case nothing came of it, but this morning I received a letter from Prince Dafydd himself, informing me that he would be attending your tests with an eye towards one of you to taking up a position in his household."

The air seemed to grow thicker, hotter, _scalding_. Florian's lungs burnt with it, and he struggled to draw in a deep enough breath to keep his head from spinning.

Beside him, Rayner shifted his weight, his shoulder briefly pressing up against Florian's. "Just the one of us?" he asked.

"I believe so," Master Hainsworth said. "The High Mage advised His Highness that it would be unwise to employ two untried mages in a newly formed cadre."

"Right," Rayner said, and Florian thought he sounded relieved. No doubt he had been fearing that he might not get shot of Florian once they graduated, and he'd have to put up with him even after he took up residence at the palace.

Because Florian also had no doubts that Rayner would be the one chosen for that position. Master Hainsworth might well have brought them both to the High Mage's attention, but she likely also took pains to tell him that Rayner was the youngest student to take his test in centuries and the best and the brightest student the College had seen since Maria Longfellow herself – High Mage to three successive monarchs and leader of the army of Battle Mages who managed to hold back the invading Roman forces for almost a full decade before Britannia succumbed to their superior numbers and was conquered.

There did remain a slim, outside chance that Florian would be picked instead, but he couldn't contemplate it then and there, when the shock of Master Hainsworth's words was still so great and all-encompassing, and his mind was an air-starved chaotic muddle besides.

After Master Hainsworth dismissed them, Florian sequestered himself in the comfortingly familiar surroundings of his hidey-hole in the library, shielded behind the complete oeuvre of the circumlocutory Professor Mason, rested his forehead against the smooth, soothing coolness of the table there, closed his eyes, and concentrated on slowing his breathing until the tumult of his thoughts subsided and he could consider his prospects with something approaching rationality.

Though his magic was not as powerful as Rayner's, and he did not wield it with such effortless skill, his knowledge of it was far deeper and broader – he knew spells off by heart that he was certain Rayner had never even heard of before. He was dedicated to his studies, diligent in his work, and his manners were more polished; much better suited to court, he would have thought, than Rayner's.

If the Crown Prince were the sort of man who prized such abilities above the superficial flash and dazzle spectacle of Rayner translocating himself clear across the city or uprooting a tree with a single word, then he might yet have a shot at success. The odds were long but, even then, might still be improved by leaning into those few qualities that he possessed and that Rayner was sorely lacking. 

Florian modified his already rigorous revision timetable, squeezing in an extra hour of study before breakfast and another two after dinner. He wheedled his mother into buying him a new shirt and trousers, buffed his boots and the brass buttons of his best frock coat until he could see his face in both, and every evening before bed, locked himself in the bathroom he shared with Rayner, perfecting a courtly bow in front of the full-length mirror there and practising his best attempt at courtly speech, taking care not to shorten his vowels or elide the definite article as he did in his natural accent.

Rayner spent his time in counterpoint to Florian, eschewing his books in favour of football and – with increasing frequency as the few, precious days they had remaining to them slipped quickly away – sousing himself in alcohol.

He even went out drinking on the night before their tests and staggered back into their bedroom as the curfew bell sounded, three sheets to the wind and seemingly only remaining upright by the simple inertia of his lurching forward momentum. 

"I'm going to be getting up very early tomorrow," Florian warned him when he collapsed facedown onto his bed with a low, heartfelt groan. "I've already set my alarm."

"'S okay," Rayner murmured. "I can sleep through it."

Then, fully clothed and with his boots still on his feet, he closed his eyes. Within seconds, he was snoring.

Just as promised, he kept on snoring when the alarm sounded at six the next morning, slumbering through Florian's extensive preparations to render himself fit to stand face-to-face with royalty – his washing and scrubbing, styling and primping, and finally mantling himself with his finest outfit.

Upon seating himself in the dining room afterwards, the cook proudly presented him with a specially made breakfast which he claimed would 'keep his strength up': an oleaginous mound of bacon and eggs topped off by half a loaf's worth of toast.

Florian was profuse in his thanks, but as soon as the cook returned to the kitchens, he pushed the plate away and draped a napkin over it to shield it from view. Although he'd be grateful for the break from the standard College fare of plain porridge on any normal day, his hands were shaking so badly that he wouldn't have trusted in his ability to transport the food between the plate and his mouth without dribbling egg down his new shirt or splattering his new trousers with grease even if the sight and the smell of it didn't make his already unsettled stomach churn.

Instead, he took out his notes from Master Armstrong's class to refresh his memory of the more complex runes he had learnt that past year. It felt as though it was the first time he was seeing a good half of them, and they resembled nothing more than meaningless scribble.

"I've forgotten everything," he told Olivia despondently when she joined him at his table a short while later.

"No, you haven't," Olivia said, her tone brisk and business-like, giving no quarter to his anxiety. "It's just your mind playing tricks on you. You said the same thing happened when Master Hainsworth called on you to open the circle last year, but your body remembered the spell anyway because you'd practiced it so often. This isn't any different; it's just last-minute nerves and I'm sure you'll be fine."

Florian attempted to remonstrate, to insist that nine years of knowledge had been wiped clean from his head, but Olivia wouldn't listen to a word of it. She cajoled him into setting his notes aside and eating a couple of rashers of cold bacon and slice of limp toast – sharing the cook's opinion that he was in need of the strength that apparently only congealed fatty food could provide – and talked at him with determined persistence about matters wholly unconnected to magic, revision, and tests until the bell that marked the start of her first lesson sounded and she reluctantly had to depart.

As soon as she left, Florian returned to his notes and read through them time and again with little recognition and even less comprehension. By the time Master Hainsworth came to tell him that Prince Dafydd's arrival was imminent some three hours later, he was no longer confident he'd even be able to spell the word 'rune' if he was called upon to do so in his test, never mind replicating one of them.

Master Hainsworth led him up to her office where Rayner was already waiting, slumped in an alcohol-sodden, dissolute heap on the sofa there. He hadn't changed out of the clothes he'd slept in the previous night, and in fact didn't look to have truly awoken since then, his eyelids sagging closed as Master Hainsworth ran through a timely and most welcome reminder of the protocol and etiquette they would be expected to observe when, an all-too-brief handful of minutes hence, they were to be introduced to their royal visitor.

Or rather royal visitors, something which seemed to surprise Master Hainsworth fully as much as it terrified Florian, who had only just managed to inure himself sufficiently to the prospect of meeting a singular prince - close to his own age and widely held to be gregarious and amiable - that he no longer broke into a cold sweat at the thought of it.

But when Master Hainsworth opened the door to her servant's knock, it was to admit King Llewellyn and Queen Alexandra. Both were tall and well-built, but still seemed to take up more space in the small room than the physical reality of their bodies could possibly account for. Florian found himself struggling to breathe again, and a wave of blackness washed across his vision when he swung his body down into a bow. 

Queen Alexandra smiled on him and on Rayner too, when he belatedly stumbled to his feet and bobbed his head towards her and the King. Though Florian had heard it said that King Llewellyn was just as personable as his oldest son, his face was set in grim, austere lines throughout.

This severe expression was mirrored by his youngest son, who followed close on their heels. If Prince Caerwyn's own coming of age hadn't been celebrated by parades and street parties only the month before, Florian never would have believed they were the same age. Although he was of a height with both Florian and Rayner, there was not a trace of adolescent lankiness remaining in _his_ frame, which was broad and heavily muscled – almost barrel chested – and he moved with the brisk self-assurance of someone who was confident in their body's strength and comfortable within their own skin.

He stood in stark contrast to his sister, Princess Bethan – a girl of fifteen, who almost tripped over the long train of her dress, blushed and stammered her way through her introduction to Florian and Rayner, then shrunk back behind Prince Caerwyn's bulk, her gaze trained diffidently down at her feet.

Then Prince Dafydd swept into the room. 

Florian had seen his face represented countless times in newspaper illustrations, on the commemorative stamps issued to mark his coming of age, and in the official portraits hanging in the Eboracum town hall, and not a one of those depictions did him justice. He was much more handsome in the flesh and up-close – his skin unblemished, his features strong and well defined, and his strikingly blue eyes shining clear.

It was honour enough that he had condescended to witness the College's graduating tests in person, but for the entire royal family to attend was unheard of in history, to Florian's knowledge. Even the redoubtable Maria Longfellow had had to settle for Queen Bronwen alone.

Florian was not so transported by the mingled delight and terror of this unexpected turn of events that he was made foolish enough to think any of it was for his benefit, though. All eyes save Princess Bethan's were fixed unwaveringly on Rayner and, after they were introduced, Prince Dafydd repeated his name slowly and with evident relish, as though the mere sound of it was an unparalleled wonder to him.

Rayner remained frowning and sullen, seemingly unaware – or uncaring – of their fascination with him.

Greetings exchanged and introductions made, Master Hainsworth escorted the royal family away to take up their seats. Rayner lingered after them a little while in order to wish Florian a disingenuous 'good luck' before he too lumbered off, leaving Florian to make his way alone to the practice hall where the testing was to take place.

As on any other day when final tests were scheduled, lessons had been cancelled for the afternoon. Normally, most would take it as an opportunity to sneak off to the pub for a few, get in another game of football, or, in Florian's case, fit in an extra revision session, but today there was a huge crowd of Masters and students milling around outside the hall, presumably lured in by the chance to gawp at their esteemed visitors.

Olivia and Charlie broke away from their number as Florian approached and hurried to his side. 

Olivia told him he looked awfully pale, then dragged him into a tight embrace.

"You're going to be fine," she told him again. "You already know you've passed all your other exams with flying colours, so this'll just be… dotting the i's and crossing the t's."

Florian thought that it most certainly would not be. All his other exams had been written ones, and he hadn't felt even a fraction as nervous before taking them, knowing that, if he forgot something momentarily or made an error in one of his answers, he could always go back and correct it later before his time ran out, and no-one would or could ever count that against him. 

There would be no corrections possible in what would hopefully be his last practical exam of his College career. If he made a mistake in drawing out his runes or channelling his magic, whatever spell he was trying to cast would simply fail full stop, in front of this _enormous_, this _royal_, audience. And that was the best-case scenario – at worst, the spell might misfire and blow up in his face.

Before he could share any of these worries with Olivia, Master Hainsworth flung open the doors to the hall and called on everyone assembled to take their places within. Olivia gave Florian another brief hug, and Charlie, who had hung back a little way whilst they were talking, suddenly scurried forward, leant up press a horribly sloppy kiss against Florian's cheek, and then scurried off again, his cheeks flaming red.

Florian wasn't given the chance to wonder over that, as Master Hainsworth called his name too shortly thereafter and then, when he didn't spring forth into immediate action, slung an arm around his shoulders and bustled him inside, as though worried that he might take fright and make a run for it if she didn't keep a careful hold on him throughout.

At one end of the hall, a stage had been erected, at the other, a long semicircle of chairs facing it, three rows deep, upon the frontmost of which the royal family were seated alone. When Florian walked past them, the King whispered something in Prince Dafydd's ear which made him scowl, first at his father and then at Florian.

Most likely, this princely annoyance was wholly unconnected to Florian – perhaps they had disagreed on some small matter of protocol, or were rehashing an old argument, or perhaps the king had just now noticed, as Florian had tried and failed not to notice earlier, that his son's trousers were a trifle too tight and revealing and His Highness resented receiving his father's fashion advice – but he couldn't shake the feeling that it _might_ be. It made his slow trudge up to the stage seem very exposed and impossibly long.

Florian had watched a student take her test once before in his first year, when he was at his most eager to experience all the College had to offer, so knew exactly what he was to expect from his own. Masters Armstrong and Lewis would call out spells of increasing complexity which he would then have to cast promptly and faultlessly.

His entire body tingled with restless energy, the rapid pulse of his magic indistinguishable from the electric thrum of his nerves.

The first spell Master Armstrong named was ice – one almost risible in its simplicity. And yet, just as he'd feared it might, Florian's mind wiped blank. His right hand rose seemingly of its own accord, though, fingers sketching out the requisite rune against the air in precise, mechanical strokes. A small pile of snow crystallised within his cupped left palm.

"Good," Master Armstrong said. "Now, levitation, if you please, Mr De Courcy."

That spell he cast as if on instinct, too, and the next, and the next, all the way on through to the last Master Lewis asked of him – a series of discrete spells chained together that would produce a light which would grow stronger if a friend passed it by, and explode into shards of burning metal if a foe did.

Florian felt suspended in the quiet stillness of the moment afterwards, no sense of time passing or thought in his head but a formless, buzzing drone until Master Hainsworth stepped forward following a hushed conversation with the other Masters to offer her congratulations and pronounce him a mage.

His audience erupted into applause then, rousing Florian into full awareness of the occasion, his surroundings, and even his own body. Someone cheered – doubtless Olivia or Charlie – and someone else – presumably one of the Masters – clapped him resoundingly on his back before steering him to sit on a chair pulled up close beside the edge of the stage.

He collapsed onto it, his heart thumping fast and hard as though he'd just finished running a gruelling footrace, but satisfied enough by his achievements to feel as though he had won it.

That diffuse pleasure lasted only until Master Hainsworth announced Rayner, and he saw Prince Dafydd lean forward in his seat, staring avidly at the stage.

Rayner looked even more dreadful than he had in Master Hainsworth's office – pallid, and shaking, and clammy with sweat. Nonetheless, he rattled through his first few spells easily enough, though with a little less panache than he usually displayed.

On the fourth spell, he stumbled. It called for him to string together several runes, but his fingers twitched a little awry on the second rune – the 'fire' rune, that Florian had watched him draw perfectly on Master Armstrong's blackboard on their second day at school. It was just a tiny slip, one that Florian would never have noticed if he wasn't seated so close to the stage, but a damaging one. 

The rune didn't complete, and the entire spell collapsed into a cloud of useless, dull sparks that soon fizzled away into nothingness.

Rayner laughed, as he always did in the face of his own failure, and then asked Master Armstrong, "Can I try that again?"

"Of course," Master Armstrong replied.

He cast the spell correctly on his second attempt, and sailed effortlessly through the rest of his test, but Florian was convinced that the conversation that then ensued between the three Masters was more heated than that which came after his own, and that it took Master Hainsworth longer to declare that Rayner had also passed his final test and could now call himself a mage.

Although Rayner's mistake was not egregious enough to deny him his title, it could prove costly in a different way. No matter how many praises had been heaped upon him in his absence by Master Hainsworth as she extolled his virtues to the King's High Mage, it surely must have lessened his chances of being picked to join Prince Dafydd's cadre ahead of Florian, whose performance was perfect, if, admittedly, somewhat rote and pedestrian, as it always was in comparison to Rayner's.

He looked towards the royal family's seats again, hoping that he might be able to glean some insight into their thoughts from their expressions, but both Prince Dafydd and King Llewellyn's chairs were empty.

They were also notably absent from the celebratory feast which followed. So too was Rayner, and Florian made himself sick with imagining the three of them meeting in secret somewhere, King and Prince reassuring Rayner that, never mind that he fucked up and Florian didn't, they still wanted him to join their household and not Florian.

So sick that he couldn't force down more than a few mouthfuls of the uncharacteristically palatable food that the kitchen staff had prepared, no more than he could force himself to concentrate on Olivia and Charlie's spirited and happy chatter. Eventually, he tired of the pretence of appearing to appreciate them both and, pleading a queasy stomach and pounding head, made his excuses to his friends and retreated to his bedroom.

He half-expected to find Rayner there, caught in the process of packing up his belongings to take to the palace, but the room was empty and, thankfully, all of Rayner's horrible, ratty old clothes were all tangled up in their normal disarray in his dresser.

Somewhat relieved, Florian laid down on his bed, stared up at the ceiling, and very determinedly thought about nothing for the best part of an hour, until a swift rapping knock sent him scrambling for the door.

He paused for a moment before it, ran his hand back through his hair and straightened his clothes, and then slowly eased it open to reveal a servant liveried in Prince Dafydd's colours. His heart leapt to his throat.

"Mage De Courcy," the servant said, bowing low. "His Highness, Prince Dafydd, would like to offer you a position in his cadre."

Florian should probably pronounce himself flattered, shake the man's hand, or sink to the fucking floor on his knees and thank him for delivering him such a momentous message, but instead he found himself saying, "Just me? Or will… Mage Rayner be offered a position, too?"

The servant frowned, clearly puzzled. "Just you, sir," he said, and likely much more besides as his mouth kept on moving, but Florian didn't hear any of it.

He was too overwhelmed by the realisation that, with those three words, he had not only been granted the profession of his boyhood dreams, but he'd finally managed to beat Rayner, as well.

For the first time since they met, Florian had _won_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for falling behind on replying to comments yet again; I will endeavour to start catching up from tomorrow!


	18. Chapter 18

* * *

Florian rouses in slow increments, awareness of his body gradually trickling back to him as he drifts towards full consciousness.

The air is icy, stinking of mildew, and he's lying on something cold and hard; something which doesn't yield when he flexes his fingers and presses the heels of his palms down against it. Definitely not a bed – even the poor excuse for a mattress he had made use of in the shepherd's hut had the tiniest hint of give to it. Most likely stone, then.

When he blinks open his eyes, he can scarcely see anything more than when they were closed. What little light there is is diffuse. Flickering. Not cast out by an oil lamp properly shielded by its glass chimney or even an otherworldly sun shadowed by clouds roiling with tainted magic.

Cold. Dark. Damp. Stone. He must have returned to the cave just beyond Lord Henry's estate somehow – perhaps he'd toppled back through still-open the circle when he fell.

He crooks his elbows, bends his knees, and sits up. His gorge rises, acrid and burning at the back of his throat, and a piercing pain shoots across his head, like a heated wire thrust through his skull from temple to temple.

He cries out from the sudden, sharp shock of it, and someone grabs at his shoulders, holding him steady when his body starts to crumple in on itself, sinking back towards collapse.

"Easy now," that someone says.

It's Rayner's voice, husky and hushed in a way Florian has never heard it before, which means those must be Rayner's hands gripping his shoulders a little too tightly, fingers clawed deep.

Florian blinks again until his tear-sheened vision clears and the indistinct, pinkish blur in front of him resolves itself into Rayner's face. It's streaked with dirt and darkened yet further by his expression, his eyebrows drawn close together in a pensive frown.

"What happened?" Florian asks him. "Did I fall back through the circle?"

"Naw," Rayner says. "You're still in the Otherworld. When Charlie and I came through, you were already down for the count, and a few seconds later, so were we. We all got hit with… something. Not sure what, but most likely magic. Fae magic. I assume that's who brought us here."

"And where is 'here' exactly?" Florian asks. Beyond Rayner, dimly uplighted by the feeble flame of the candle set on the floor beside him, there is only a twilight-hued, featureless gloom. 

"Some kind of gaol cell," Rayner says. "Not quite as nice as yours at the lodge. A bit lacking in amenities. There's a pisspot, a couple of chairs, and a pile of straw that smells like someone died in it. I found the candle buried in that.

"Whoever brought us here has had off with our packs, but it looks like they didn't go rifling through our pockets, thankfully. I've still got my matches."

Without their packs and the food and water they contain, they won't last long. Eating or drinking anything native to the Otherworld would imprison them in this realm more securely than any gaol cell.

"We need to get out of here," Florian says.

"Aye, that's the plan." Rayner grins, his teeth flashing bright in the half-light. "We can't do much about it at the moment, though. Charlie's still out cold, and you don't look to be in a fit state to be doing any escaping right now. You should get some more rest whilst you can."

His voice turns soft and cloying, dripping with condescendingly exaggerated concern; the way someone might speak to a small, fractious, overtired child who refuses to go to bed even though they're nodding off on their feet. It makes Florian want to defy him on bristling reflex.

He shrugs off Rayner's hands and tries to stand. Pain lances through his head again, and his vision blacks out entirely for a terrifying, heart-stopping instant. He sways, half-risen on his knees and teetering precariously on the verge of overbalancing, but Rayner clutches hold of him once more before he pitches into a face-down swoon and cracked skull.

"Careful," Rayner says in that same, syrupy tone, easing Florian back down to a sitting position. "I reckon you could have done yourself an injury when you fell. Are your eyes blurred? Do you feel sick? Have a headache?"

Florian knows better than to nod. "You think I might have a concussion?" he says.

Florian's mother had taught him the signs of one; likely Rayner's own mother did too.

"Maybe," Rayner says. He lets go of Florian's shoulders, picks up the candle and moves it closer to Florian's face. "Well, your pupils look normal enough, which is a good sign. More than likely, you're just suffering from the aftereffects of the magic the fae used on you, and you know those'll wear off on their own in time. If it's a concussion, though, it'd be a lot more dangerous."

"I know," Florian says. "Mother used to give me that lecture every time I so much as contemplated climbing a tree as a child."

"I used to get it from Ma once or twice a day, but then I didn’t just _contemplate_ climbing trees. Or anything else, for that matter." Rayner's eyes dart away from Florian's, and he swallows hard. "Do you…? Would it be okay if I checked you over? Just so we know what we're dealing with."

Even though it's a sensible suggestion, Florian would still very much like to tell him 'no'; no, he would very much prefer not to be poked and prodded and pawed at, but his own arms feel like lumps of lead and it would take far more strength than he currently possesses to raise them all the way up to his head. 

"Fine," he says, surly but resigned.

Rayner sets the candle back down, and drops to a crouch in front of Florian, only a hand's-breadth away. "Right," he breathes out shakily. 

Despite his casual manhandling of Florian earlier, and the cavalier way he'd pushed and pulled and physically steered him about since his capture, Rayner seems reluctant to touch him now. He reaches out slowly, stuttering forward in stops and starts to settle his hands, feather-light, against the top of Florian's head.

"Okay," he says. "I'm just going to…"

He maps the back of Florian's skull with a tentative press and slide of his fingertips, from crown to base. There is a small sore spot there, tender as a bruise, but there's no resurgence of the sharp, stabbing pain when Rayner runs his thumb over it, only a slight twinge of discomfort.

"I can't feel anything so far," Rayner says, running his hands back to Florian's crown and then over and on to his hairline. "Where was the pain?"

"My temples, mostly," Florian says.

He startles when Rayner's fingers drift there, because they haven't touched skin to skin since the first day they met and Rayner shook Florian's hand so enthusiastically, as though he was a person Rayner would be pleased to know.

His fingertips are rough with calluses and warm despite the clammy chill of the air, lending complementary heat to Florian's face as he moves them from temples to cheekbones and then to the corners of his eyes, where there's fresh pain gathered. 

Rayner winces sympathetically when Florian grimaces. "Sorry," he says. "Looks like you're going to end up with at least one black eye."

He trails his fingers down until his thumbs rest just below Florian's jaw, and there he stops, his hands bracketing Florian's face, and simply stares at him.

Bright crescent moons of reflected candlelight shine at the bottom curve of his irises, making them look clearer than Florian has ever seen them before. It's mesmerising, somehow. Florian can't seem to tear his own eyes away.

Rayner's breath shortens, and he leans forward, close enough to press his lips against Florian's in a kiss so brief that it's been and gone and over before Florian has much of a chance to register that it's happening.

"Fuck," Rayner spits out, jerking away from him. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to…" He shoots to his feet and takes a couple of stumbling steps back into the darkness surrounding them. "I've just wanted to do that for a long while now, and… Shit, that doesn't excuse it. I really am sorry, De Courcy."

His apologies don't really register, either, because Florian's mind latches hard on that 'long while', Rayner's voice dissolving into little better than white noise thereafter, as it seems to suggest that that glancing brush of a kiss wasn't merely the symptom of a concussion on Rayner's part – the result of him hallucinating that there was someone else in Florian's place.

"How long, exactly?" he asks. 

He suspects that it's been no more than a day or two at most, and that this is just some passing fancy of Rayner's brought on by their recent proximity, Rayner's romantic disappointments with his Prince, and perhaps some measure of stress-induced madness, as had precipitated Florian's own fleeting attraction to Rayner at school. He can't imagine inspiring amorous feelings in anyone during his captivity at the lodge, when he was squeezed like an overstuffed sausage into Charlie's too-small clothes, much less back when they first became reacquainted, when he was exhausted, bedraggled, and dressed in a tattered robe that stank of old sweat and vomit.

But Rayner takes a long, wavering breath and then says, "How old were we when you had all your hair cut off?"

"Fourteen," Florian says automatically and then, after the true import of Rayner's words begins to sink in, he repeats with mounting surprise, incredulity, and corresponding volume, "I was fourteen, Rayner! You can't possibly have wanted to… to kiss me since we were _fourteen_."

"Why not?" Rayner asks.

Florian is insulted that he needs to ask. That he dares to. "Because you couldn't stand me then," he says. "You were horrible to me at school."

"When was I ever horrible to you?" Rayner asks. He sounds honestly puzzled. 

"You used to make fun of me," Florian says, indignant, "because I took care of myself and my clothes, and wouldn't eat your fucking disgusting, dirty sweets that probably would have given me bilious fever."

"Fuck's sake, De Courcy; I was _ten_. Lots of people are ignorant little wankers when they're ten, but they grow out of it," Rayner says. "Like I did. I barely even _spoke_ to you after our first year, never mind making fun of you."

Which, thinking on it, was true enough, Florian supposes, but it still isn't enough to absolve Rayner. He might not have been the instigator, but he was certainly guilty of being a co-conspirator.

"Rhys never did, though, did he? He was vile to me for years, and you never said anything to him about it. And it never stopped you… carrying on with him, either."

"I knew he could be a bit of a prick, but, in my defence, I was seventeen; I probably would have shagged a statue if it had a nice arse. I honestly didn't realise he was being such a shit to you until he tried to attack you that time out in the school grounds – he was that sly about it – and then I broke up with him and asked Master Hainsworth to have him moved out of our room. I never encouraged him and I—" Rayner cuts himself off abruptly with a sharp snort of something that sounds superficially like laughter. "Look, I'm sorry about what happened at school, and I'm sorry that I kissed you just now. You don't need to worry, it'll never happen again. I haven't been pining after you for years, waiting for my moment to leap on you, or anything like that. It was a mistake, and it never would have happened in the first place if I was thinking straight."

His face is half-wreathed in shadows, so it's difficult to judge his expression with any great degree of accuracy, but he looks sincere enough from what little Florian can see, and sounds it even more so. Given the circumstances, it's hardly surprising that his thoughts are muddled – Florian's own are an egg-beaten scramble that he can barely separate out one from another – and that inspires Florian towards magnanimity and taking Rayner at his word, at least for the time being.

"It's all right," he says. "Consider it forgotten."

Which is a lie – if and when they escape from here, when they're back safe and sound on familiar ground, he'll doubtless replay Rayner's every word and movement time and again, dissecting them down to their bones in the search for some hidden nuance of meaning he might have missed, some hidden insult, but right here and now he has neither the luxury of time nor the necessary faculties for that kind of reflection.

"Thanks." Rayner gives him a tight nod. "Right, I'm going to take a proper look around, see if there's a handy secret passage out of here or something like that. Won't be long."

He picks up his candle and wanders away. Florian watches the faint, dancing pinpoint of light that marks his progress around the room blankly, his mind a whistling void until Rayner returns, wearing a broad, triumphant grin.

"You found a secret passage, then," Florian surmises.

"Naw; the next best thing. A locked door."

Florian frowns at him. "And how's that supposed to help us, exactly?" 

The spell to unlock doors is a simple one – two words, a single rune; Florian had mastered it at the age of eleven – but the last thing they need is for one of them to make himself sick, drawing on the spoiled magic here.

"You know how you accused Charlie and me of running wild as children?" Rayner says. "Well, you were right, and Charlie ran even wilder than I did; rubbed shoulders with some very unsavoury characters. I guess he never told you before, but he's a dab hand with a lockpick."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... Apologies once again for not having caught up with replying to comments yet - this past week just seems to have up and disappeared on me and I've got very behind on everything yet again...


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rather later than intended, as I was struggling with writer's block for a while...
> 
> (Chapter count also updated, as I've been back over my outline and rearranged things a little...)

* * *

Whilst Florian had known better than to anticipate that his arrival at the palace would be met by the fanfares and confetti-strewn parades he had spent many an idle hour imagining over the past fortnight, he hadn't thought it outlandish to expect something a little grander than being directed by one of the guards at the front gate towards a shabby little anteroom adjoining the servants' quarters, where he was met by a solitary, harried-looking footman.

"Mage De Courcy?" The man's tone was brisk, his bow even brisker. "Please, follow me. I'll show you to your quarters."

From the anteroom, Florian was led past pantries, sculleries, and washrooms belching out huge clouds of fragrant steam, through a rabbit warren of gloomy, twisting corridors that wove through the underbelly of the palace, far beneath the notice of its noble inhabitants, and on to a narrow stone spiral staircase which corkscrewed up through the centre of the building's southern tower.

According to the footman, who bounded up the steps two at a time, High Mage Anderson had chosen the topmost rooms of that tower to house Prince Dafydd's new cadre because he found the view both magnificent and inspiring, and thought the walk up to them, regularly made, to be peculiarly healthful, keeping the blood pumping and thereby cleansing one's humours. 

Florian panted out some vague, gasping noises of agreement and approval, not wanting to impugn the High Mage's good name or good judgement, but privately decided that he would travel via translocation henceforth. By the time they reached his quarters, he was badly winded, dripping with sweat, and in dire need of a strong cup of tea and preferably a short nap to follow. If he had to make that same journey on foot several times a day, he would likely spend so long recuperating from it each time that he would get nothing else done. Were his humours ever in need of rebalancing, then Mother would be able to supply him with a whole host of efficacious tinctures and potions – all of them noxious-smelling and unpleasant to imbibe, but still less taxing to both body and mind than the walk.

The footman pushed open the door to the room, gestured towards it, then dipped down into a bow all in one smooth, continuous movement. He was already turning on his heel to leave as he said, "I'll let your Second know that you've arrived, sir," and had reached the head of the stairs again before Florian caught enough breath to splutter out his thanks.

He propped himself up against the doorjamb until his heart had stopped hammering fit to burst from his chest and then took his first, shaky step into his new life.

The room he entered was somewhat smaller than both his old dorm room at the College and his childhood bedroom at Mother's house, and crammed so full of luxuriously upholstered, ornately carved, and decidedly oversized furniture that there was scarcely a square foot together of clear floorspace remaining. The chests and boxes containing his belongings that had been sent on ahead of his own arrival had been piled atop the wide, green-canopied bed for a lack of anywhere else to put them, seemingly.

There were two doors set into the wall opposite the bed – the first leading onto a small bathroom equipped with a water closet, sink, and deep, claw-footed tub; the second to an even smaller study, bereft of windows. It was filled wall-to-wall with a bureau desk and matching bookcase which wouldn't be large enough to accommodate the books Florian had brought from home, never mind the collection he had dreamt of amassing, now that he'd have the funds to do so.

When he exited the study, head hanging low and dispirited, he almost collided with a man who'd stationed himself just outside the doorway, wedged into the tiny sliver of space between the end of a plump taupe ottoman and the start of a brocaded chaise longue. 

"Mage De Courcy," he said, flinging himself into a bow so deep that he lost his footing and stumbled into the ottoman. "My name's Mayhew. Paul Mayhew. Your appointed Second. I'm pleased… honoured to make your acquaintance, sir."

He was perhaps a handful of years older than Florian, and a handful of inches taller, but built along the same gangling and coltishly awkward lines. His arms and legs were spindly, his pale cheeks hollow, and his pointed chin was darkened by what appeared to be a game though ultimately unsuccessful attempt at growing a beard. Remembering the sad debacle of his own experiment with facial hair two years prior, Florian's chest ached with fellow feeling for the man, and shook his hand warmly when it was proffered to him.

And there, for an embarrassingly protracted moment, they stalled - Mayhew staring at Florian, and Florian looking at Mayhew's shoulder, his ear, the side of his neck, anything other than his expectant expression, having found himself at a complete loss for words.

The art of making engaging small talk with strangers had never been one that Florian was particularly skilled at, but since his life had been circumscribed by the College and his studies for so many years, and his social circle severely limited as a consequence, he seemed to have lost what little knack he might once have possessed for it.

He rummaged desperately through the dark, neglected recesses of his mind until he unearthed a likely seeming question, which he then immediately and gratefully blurted out: "Have you been a Second long?"

Mayhew appeared relieved to have been asked, and when he answered, it was in a sudden rush, the words all blurring together one into another. 

"My da's Second to the King's High Mage, and I've been apprenticed to him since I was fourteen," he said. "To my Da, that is, not the High Mage. I've got no magic in me at all. Can't even float a feather, though I did try when I was younger. All kids do, don't they? Well, perhaps not you, sir, seeing as how you went to school at the College. I bet you were floating much bigger things than a feather there!

"Anyway, Da reckoned I was about ready to be working on my own, and I was supposed to be assigned to Mage Greenwood, but then she up and decided quite out of the blue that she wanted to retire early. She left just last week; gone to Luguvalium – do you know Luguvalium, sir? It's right up by the border with Caledonia – to live with her sister. She's got a farm there. Breeds goats – the little white ones that nobles like to keep as pets rather than the big spotted ones that are good milkers.

"Da didn't quite know what he was going to do with me after that, but then His Highness – Prince Dafydd, that is – told him that you'd soon be coming to join us, and Da said that being your Second would be perfect for me, given that we're near the same age, and all.

"So, here I am."

Mayhew had taken no more than three breaths throughout this entire recounting, and his face was blood red shading towards purple due to lack of air at the end of it, reminding Florian rather strongly of Charlie. The observation helped him relax. Talking to Charlie was easy, because it required very little in the way of input on Florian's side to keep the conversation going – the odd well-timed question would no doubt ensure that everything flowed along quite nicely, even if Florian wasn't able to think of something interesting, charming, or witty to add to the proceedings himself.

"Ah, I see," he said. "And what will your duties as my Second be, exactly?"

They'd touched on the role of Seconds only very briefly at school, and even then purely in a historical context, as most graduates of the College would never be appointed one. It was a post that survived only within the royal family – a relic of the days when their cadres served as a standing army of Battle Mages and Sorcerers, all of whom were sworn directly to the Crown.

"I've been trained in the sword, and the bow, and hand-to-hand combat, so I can protect you if we ever have to go to war, though that doesn't seem much likely," Mayhew said. "Mostly, I'll be working as your personal secretary – dealing with your correspondence and so on – and your valet. Drawing your bath, looking after your clothes, helping you dress—"

"There'll be no need for that," Florian cut in quickly, horrified at the prospect, because the nine years he'd spent sharing the cramped quarters of a dorm room had failed to inure him to disrobing in front of others. He'd always timed his morning and evening routines carefully so that he could change his clothes in the privacy of the bathroom, even in later years when his only potential audience to the act was Rayner.

"Just as you wish, sir," Mayhew said, bowing again. "But, really, if there any little jobs you need doing around your quarters, then I'm your man." His gaze flitted around the room absently before settling on Florian's luggage. "Like, maybe I could help you unpack? We could start now, if you like. It usually takes High Mage Anderson a good half-hour or more to walk all the way up to the top of the tower on account of his dodgy knee, so we'll be waiting on him a while yet."

It was a task that Florian would much prefer to accomplish alone, as he was particular about how his clothes were stored and how he'd envisaged his books would be set out – albeit in a much larger and far grander space than his tiny new study allowed for – but Mayhew looked so very eager to be put to work that he felt it would be unkind to spurn the offer. 

He didn't much care how his toiletries ended up being arranged, so directed Mayhew towards the small box containing them instead, and he bustled off with cheerful alacrity.

Florian turned his attentions to his clothes trunk: laying out each item one by one on the bed, smoothing out their wrinkles as best he could with careful hands, then cleaning them front and back with a clothes brush, sweeping away the fine layering of dust that had settled over them in the two days since they were packed.

He had stowed two frockcoats and one pair of trousers in his new wardrobe by the time High Mage Anderson made his appearance, huffing and puffing and worryingly unsteady on his feet following his lengthy slog up the tower stairs.

He was an old man, his back stooped and his papery skin mottled with age spots, but his snowy hair was still full and thick, and his eyes were sharp, glittering brightly when they met Florian's.

"Mage De Courcy," he said, holding his right hand out for Florian to shake. His fingers were gnarled, joints swollen with rheumatism, so Florian took hold of them very gently. "I've heard great things about you! I understand you bested the Earl of Cataractonium's son, which has caused _quite_ the upset around here, let me tell you!"

"Not knowingly, sir," Florian said, puzzled. No-one had ever mentioned to him that there was an Earl's son who studied magic, much less that they would be pitted against each other in some sort of competition in which he had, apparently, emerged the victor. "I can't say we've ever even met."

"But surely you must know him." High Mage Anderson's wrinkled brow creased even more deeply in confusion. "I thought you were at school with Lord Jonathan, and took your final tests at the same time?"  
  
He couldn't be talking about anyone other than Rayner, and though it probably come as a great, cataclysmic shock to find out that someone so loud, crass, and unkempt was actually the son of an Earl, Florian instead found the news depressingly par for the course.

Rayner was already the youngest titled mage in centuries, inexplicably popular, and the best-looking person that had attended their school, according to some – why on earth wouldn't he be a secret noble, too? There was no blessing the universe hadn't seen fit to bestow on him, seemingly.

"He didn't go by Lord Jonathan at school," he said dully. "Everyone called him Jack. Or Rayner."

"Really? How singular," High Mage Anderson said, shaking his head wonderingly. "Well, I, for one, am pleased to have you join us, young man.

"I'll leave you to finish getting settled in, then I'll introduce you to the rest of our little cadre. We'll be in the library; Mayhew can show you the way."

After he took his leave, Florian tried to concentrate on his unpacking as he'd been instructed to, but had to give it up as a bad job in short order, as his mind persisted in wandering away from his clothes and towards his discovery about Rayner, thoroughly distracting him from his work.

Viewed through this new prism of knowledge, certain things about the man made a great deal more sense. His apathetic approach to his studies, for one, and his apparent unconcern about his future job prospects, for another. What would it matter to him if he got bad marks in his exams or even failed his final tests completely? He would be rich and respected, be granted an exalted position, come what may. 

And to think Florian had believed it would be a sad waste of Rayner's talents if he ended up having to work for his father.

As soon as Mayhew emerged from the bathroom, they went on down to the library, where High Mage Anderson and the other two members of Prince Dafydd's cadre were gathered.

Mage David Wilkinson and Mage Alice Parker were both dark-haired and dark-eyed, of middle years and middle height, and both were wearing long, open-fronted robes in Prince Dafydd's colours – deep blue edged in gold. They smiled politely enough when High Mage Anderson introduced Florian to them, but quickly excused themselves thereafter, citing prior engagements of great urgency that they really must attend to.

High Mage Anderson thus showed Florian around the library alone, explaining its esoteric cataloguing system as they went. It was a large room, almost filling the second floor of the tower, but still scant in comparison to the College's own library. It did boast some extremely rare volumes that the College had been lacking, though, and, to Florian's delight, the High Mage informed him that there was no limit to the number he could take out at one time and that he could keep them as long as he liked.

From the library, they moved on to the well-stocked laboratory on the third floor, and then the High Mage dismissed Florian, telling him to ready himself for a meeting with Prince Dafydd, which he seemed certain would occur later that day.

Florian spent the afternoon arranging his quarters, one ear trained on the door throughout, waiting for a servant's knock that never came.

Nor did it the next day, which Florian whiled away reading and fielding the occasional visit from Mages Wilkinson and Parker, who popped by several times, brimful of questions for him – mostly concerning Rayner, and whether he really was as transcendentally skilled and powerful as they had heard him to be.

It wasn't until morning of the third day that he received his summons from the Crown Prince, delivered alongside a plate of poached eggs and bacon by the maid who brought all the mages their breakfast.

It was a brief note, messily scrawled slantwise across a sheet of thick, creamy paper surmounted by the royal crest, and folded before the ink fully dried, obscuring a good half of it with blotches. From what Florian could piece together from the few words that remained legible, his presence was requested in Prince Dafydd's study at eleven o'clock.

The two hours that accorded Florian wasn't nearly long enough to properly prepare himself, but he did the best he could with the little time he was given. His ablutions were more hastily performed than he would have liked, his flyaway hair abandoned only partly tamed, and he dressed with scarcely half of his usual attentiveness, yet he still managed to send Mayhew into a paroxysm of nervous pacing, waiting on him to finish.

"You look fine, sir," he lied placatingly. "Fair grand. I can't imagine His Highness will find any fault in how you're dressed or owt, but he'll be spitting blood if we're late. It's a long walk down to his study, so we'll need to get a shift on. _Now_."

They practically sprinted through the palace to the study – fast enough to undo all Florian's good work on his hair – and fetched up outside it just as a clock was melodiously sounding out eleven chimes within. Nonetheless, several long minutes passed before Mayhew's knock at the door was answered by a slight young man, who introduced himself as Prince Dafydd's personal secretary, John Houghton.

He ushered Florian further into the room and towards a dark lacquered desk at which the prince was seated, picking delicately over a plate bearing a late breakfast of plump Gallian pastries.

"Ah, Mage De Courcy," he said, flicking crumbs from his fingers. He smiled at Florian, slow and pleased; on anyone else's face, Florian would call it self-satisfied. "I trust you're settling in well."

"I am, Your Highness," Florian said, bowing low. "Thank you."

"And your quarters are comfortable?"

"They are, Your Highness."

"Good, good." The prince leant back in his chair, regarding Florian speculatively with half-lidded eyes. "Now, I imagine you're eager to start work, and I have the perfect task in mind for you. Houghton here will give you the details."

He waved his right hand in a languid gesture that Florian didn't realise was one of dismissal until Houghton stepped forward, touched his elbow, and in a low, hushed tone, asked him to, "Come with me, sir."

As he trudged after the secretary, Florian attempted to reason himself out of the dissatisfaction he felt. The prince was doubtless a busy man, with many pressing demands on his time, and he should be grateful that he'd carved a few moments out of his day to meet with him, however perfunctorily. It was likely never within the realms of possibility that they would sit down together and earnestly discuss Florian's magic, his studies, and his aspirations for his new role, as Florian had foolishly imagined they might. His expectations had been far too high.

And not only where the prince's welcome was concerned, apparently.

Lacking martial concerns to occupy them, the King's cadre instead performed public works, devoting themselves to the betterance of Eboracum. Their magic sustained the city's street lights, ensured that the waters of the great river Isura ran clean, and powered the printing presses, and Florian had thought he would be called on to support their endeavours in some small way.

But in the secretary's poky little office belowstairs, he was informed that: "Prince Dafydd will be hosting a ball early next week. He wants you to set up a firework display to mark the end of the festivities." Houghton passed him a sheet of paper upon which a list of requirements had been written in a neater hand than the prince's own. "You'll need to follow these specifications precisely."

Florian had never been tasked with such a thing before, but knew from his research that the spells he would need to weave in order to perform it were simple ones. Plumes of blue and gold, showers of stars, even the white rose of Eboracum intended to be the display's crowning glory – not a one of them would test his skills to arrange.

"Oh," Florian said, disappointed again. He'd been looking forward to an opportunity to prove himself to the court, but such rudimentary spellwork would be unlikely to provide one. "Of course."

"You'll find all the supplies you need in the rose garden," the secretary said. "You can start work first thing tomorrow morning. That will give you three clear days to complete the display; I trust that will be long enough, though I'm certain Mage Parker or Mage Wilkinson will be glad to lend you their assistance, if needs be."

Florian assured him that he didn't anticipate any difficulties, but this naïve, unthinking confidence in his own abilities was quick to desert him the following morning.

Though the runes involved _were_ simple ones, they had to be drawn out on each and every one of the hundreds of paper tubes containing gunpowder that made up the fireworks themselves, and chained together along the full length of the hundreds of feet of copper wiring that connected them together.

It was tedious work from the start, and as the day drew on and the sun climbed ever higher in the sky, it became ever more laborious, too, forcing Florian to dispense with his frockcoat and shortly thereafter his waistcoat, leaving him toiling in naught but his shirtsleeves.

As he was hidden from easy view of the palace in the high-walled and distant solitude of the rose garden, he had hoped that this shameful display would go unnoticed, but a small but steady stream of nobles trickled past throughout the day, even though this quiet hinterland of the formal grounds would be quite out of their way in the normal course of things, according to Mayhew.

Most of them only stopped for a moment or two to watch Florian at his work before moving on again, but a few of the younger ladies and gentlemen lingered far longer, and asked Florian a whole host of probing questions about his magic and the spells he was constructing. They didn't seem particularly interested in listening to his answers, even so; something which served to both baffle Florian and amuse Mayhew, though he refused to divulge the reason why.

Despite this near-constant procession of interruptions, and despite the deep ache that settled deep in his hands, his head, and the small of his back after so many hours spent crouched almost double, drawing out the same runes again and again and again, Florian managed to finish setting up the display with almost a full half-day to spare before Prince Dafydd's ball was due to begin.

And that, Florian assumed, was to be the start and the end of his involvement with the event, but when he returned to his room with the intention of taking a hot bath and then sleeping the rest of the day away, there was a large parcel set on his bed that quickly put paid to any such hopes.

Attached to the parcel with a loose looping of string was a letter penned in Houghton's hand, informing him that he was expected to attend the ball that night. The parcel, he was told, contained an outfit that the prince had commissioned his personal tailor to make in honour of the occasion, which he was also expected to wear.

Thinking that the parcel must contain a robe like the ones the other mages wore, Florian eagerly tore into it, but his heart quickly sank as the paper dropped away to reveal that there was only a frockcoat and pair of breeches within. The frockcoat was royal blue, the breeches a startlingly vivid shade of buttercup yellow – both eye-catching colours, and both falling far outside Florian's preferred palette when it came to clothing, which tended towards black and dark grey with the occasional foray into subdued greens and browns if he was feeling particularly daring.

"I think he must want to show you off, sir," Mayhew observed when Florian showed him the clothes, which Florian considered a preposterous idea.

If the prince had meant to show him off, then he would have provided a robe – the proper raiment of Florian's new office.

Still, he dutifully donned both frockcoat and breeches when the time came later that evening, discovering in the process that the tailor must have made a rough guess at his size rather than taking measurements from some of his existing clothing when he sent them down to be cleaned, as he had assumed that they would have had to do.

The coat was more than a little too short, and the breeches so closely cut that it took a judicious amount of rearrangement on Florian's part to keep them from looking obscene. 

Inspecting his reflection in the full-length mirror inside his wardrobe door afterwards, Florian decided he looked ridiculous. Just as he'd always suspected, he didn't suit bright colours – they made his complexion seem washed out and clashed dreadfully with his hair – and his eyes had a wild, startled cast to them that lent him the air of a hunted animal.

Which was fitting, as he had increasingly felt like one as the day drew on.

Perhaps having noted Florian's anxious expression and deduced some small measure of its meaning, Mayhew asked him, "Have you ever attended a ball before, sir?"

In order to for them to rehearse what they'd been taught in their etiquette lessons, Master Hainsworth had arranged a couple of mock balls for their class to take part in at school. They were tiny affairs, attendance restricted to the five of them and whichever of the Masters could be cajoled into giving up a little of their precious free time to lend a hand.

Florian had found them gruelling, nevertheless. 

Despite the best efforts of their instructor in the art, Master Berger, and the tutor Mother had employed when Florian had complained of his struggles, he'd was still an incompetent when it came to dancing. Whether he lacked a natural sense of rhythm, as Master Berger said, or needed to learn how to relax, as his tutor told Mother, it made no odds as the result was the same – proficiency completely eluded him.

But dancing was essential, Master Hainsworth insisted, the very lifeblood of courtly life, so, no, he couldn't sit it out, and, no, he couldn't pick and choose his partners. He must dance with all his classmates, even though Rhys deliberately stepped on his toes and Rayner always clung onto his hand and hip so tightly that they were sore for days afterwards, rendering his efforts even more laughable than usual.

"Just a couple," he said. 

"I bet they won't have been anything like this one, sir," Mayhew said, his eyes shining at the thought. "My da says that His Highness' parties are the very best you could ever hope to attend. There's all sorts of entertainments, and so much dancing your feet'll feel fit to drop off by the end of the night."

"How marvellous," Florian said with a thin smile.

"And so many guests you can barely move for them crowding about," Mayhew continued in the same, enthusiastic vein. "And they come from miles around, too. Nobles down from Caledonia, and up from Londinium, and even all the way from _Gallia_, sir!"

"You don't say," Florian said, hoping that his formal, school taught Gallian was up to the task of conversing with one of the nation's nobles. That _he_ was up to the task of conversing with nobles, full stop.

Despite all he'd learnt at school about proper courtly etiquette, behaviour, and decorum, he'd never had much cause to put his knowledge to practical use, and he was afraid that he'd forget some essential point of it and unintentionally insult some passing Earl or Duc. That his manners would seem stilted for being unpractised. That would embarrass both himself and his partner with his ineptitude, on the off-chance someone actually asked him to dance.

"Are you all right, sir?" Mayhew asked anxiously. "You're looking awfully pale."

Florian had despaired of ever being competent at casting spells when he'd first started attending the College, but he'd buckled down, he'd persevered, and managed to master them in the end. He was sure he could learn to properly navigate court life in just the same way. He'd get through tonight – grit his teeth and endure, whatever it took – then apply himself to a new field of study on the morrow. He'd read the right books, ask the right questions, and master it too, no matter that it didn't hold the same appeal as his magic.

Until then, he supposed he would just have to bluff his way through it; pretend confidence until it came to him naturally.

"I'm fine," he said, trying on a falsely broad grin for size – play-acting at excitement. "And very much looking forward to this evening." He swept past Mayhew and on to the door, throwing it open with an exaggeratedly exuberant flourish of his arm. "Come on; let's go. I don't want to miss a single moment."


	20. Chapter 20

"Jack was just pulling your leg, Flos," Charlie says, crouching down in front of the cell door. "_He_'s probably the most unsavoury character I've ever rubbed shoulders with. I've never consorted with cat burglars or the like. Not knowingly, anyhow."

He extracts a small leather pouch from his coat pocket and opens it out to reveal an array of carved wooden lock picks slotted within, their handles engraved with runes that will serve to make them as strong as steel.

Florian inclines his head towards them. "So, how did you learn how to do this, then?" he asks.

"Well, when I was a little kid, I couldn't decide whether I wanted to be a stage magician or a real one," Charlie says. "Anyway, Da's got this enormous library – you'd love it, really – with books on just about every subject you can imagine, and I thought he'd probably have some about magic tricks that'd teach me how to perform them, just like how Jack taught himself to cast proper spells before he started school. So…"

Charlie chatters tirelessly on, but having already guessed where this anecdote is heading without having to wait out all the extraneous details and meandering diversions Charlie always adds to his tales, Florian can no longer stop his mind from wandering in the most aggravating of directions.

Towards Rayner – a silent, unseen presence watching them from the lurking darkness at the back of the cell. Watching Florian in particular, if the tell-tale prickling at the nape of his neck is anything to go by. 

When they were younger, Florian had been so very certain that he knew what prompted Rayner's occasional bouts of intense staring, ascribing them to derision, to Rayner finding fault in something he'd done or said or been. But, back then, it would never even have crossed his mind that there could be anything appreciative about them.

He'd fancied himself an ascetic, dedicated to his studies in both mind and body, and so far removed from the need for earthly pleasures of the flesh that it mattered not a whit that he was never the object of his schoolmates' flirtations or amorous intentions. The lie had soothed his ego at the time, but as the years drew on and put Florian at a comforting enough distance from his schooldays to look back on them with something approximating dispassion, it became obvious in retrospect that he'd been too bookish, insular, and horribly awkward to tickle anyone's romantic fancies.

Excepting Rayner's, apparently. 

Florian supposes that he might have had some manner of fresh-faced, willowy appeal to him in his youth, but he's gone decidedly to seed since then, and there's little of the boy he once was in the man he is now. Rayner must have hit his head very hard indeed to have mistaken them even for the brief moment in which he forgot exactly where and, more importantly _when_, they both were and kissed him.

The cascading snick of lock tumblers falling into place draws Florian's attention abruptly back to the door and to the tail end of Charlie's story. "So, after I nearly drowned myself, Ma made me promise that I wouldn't try and do any more escapology," he says, "but I still remember how to pick locks." He pushes on the door and it swings open onto a torch-lined stone passageway without. "_Et voilà_."

"Good work, short-arse," Rayner rumbles approvingly. "Let's get moving."

He shoulders past Florian and Charlie and unsheathes his bronze sword from its scabbard at his hip, clearly intending to walk ahead of them and take point. Were they all in possession of their magic, Florian would have resented him summarily appointing himself their leader, but as it is, he can only be glad of the scant protection that their one weapon in his hands provides.

The passageway seems to stretch out into infinity, receding towards a far distant vanishing point without a single twist or bend or branching corridor in sight. There are only the flaming torches, held in latticed metal sconces set at regular intervals on the walls, and between them, identical banded wooden doors.

Rayner tugs on the handle of each of them as they pass, but they are locked. Florian counts twenty until they fetch up at an open one.

"It's our cell," Rayner says, peeking inside. "Fuck, this whole thing's a recursive illusion."

"Then there should be a fault line," Florian says. Such illusions are never perfect – there is always a seam where the edges don’t quite line up, which can be prised open using the right fulcrum and lever. It will be difficult without magic, but not unfeasible. "We should go around again, and keep our eyes peeled for one this time."

When they set off again, they become so absorbed in studying the stones for hairline cracks, the wood of the doors for grains that don't quite lie true, that not a one of them hears the fae's approach until it's practically on top of them.

"You," it booms out in a deep, resonant voice like a burst of echoing thunder. "Prisoners, what are you doing out of your cell?"

It's taller even than Rayner, dressed in a long, shapeless green robe that trails along the floor behind it as it glides towards them with all the sinuous, undulating grace of a hunting viper. Its skin and hair are both colourless, and beyond its large, silvery eyes, the rest of its face is a featureless blank canvas marred only by the dark slash of a lipless mouth.

"You need to go back. I command you to…" Its mirrored gaze quickly skims over both Florian and Charlie, but when it reaches Rayner, the fae stops dead in its tracks. The tip of its pale, pointed tongue flickers into view, as though tasting the air. "The power in you is… It's _magnificent_. You, I shall keep."

"I don't think so," Rayner growls, tightening his grip on his sword.

When raises his arm to swing it, the fae strikes out almost faster than the eye can see to take tight hold of his wrist. Rayner's arms fall lifeless against his side, his sword clattering to the flagstones at his feet.

"There's no need for that," the fae says chidingly. "I think we would do very well together. I can be anything you desire."

The air around the fae shimmers, and its skin ripples, reshaping itself until it takes on the form of a lissom woman – golden-haired, rosy-cheeked, and lovely.

Rayner snorts. "You're pretty far off the mark there, sorry to say."

The fae shifts again, taking on the appearance of a handsome young man with a resolutely squared jaw, wide shoulders, and the fiercely concentrated expression of a warrior.

"Closer," Rayner concedes. "But, still, I think I'll pass."

The fae pauses for a moment, considering, and then, with a small, secretive smile, begins to change itself again. 

The transformation is slower this time, as though it's taking greater care and deliberation over its efforts than before. 

It hadn't bothered with its clothing before, but now that alters, too, the fabric of its robe fluttering about its body before restyling itself into a frockcoat and trousers. The trousers fit a little too snugly, given the new thickness of its thighs, and the frockcoat's buttons are straining to contain the rounded plumpness of the belly that swells beneath them.

The fae's cornflower blue eyes darken to an indiscriminate shade caught somewhere between green and hazel, its features become fine-boned and delicate in a fashion that Olivia had once called elfin when she was in a particularly vindictive mood, and its hair acquires both a slight but defiant wave and a colour that Mother has always termed chestnut, Florian refers to as auburn, but is probably better described as just plain red.

All in all, there's no mistaking the fae's current form for anything other than Florian's own.

Rayner laughs to see it, because he hasn't met with a personal humiliation he doesn't find inordinately amusing, seemingly. "Well, that would have been a lot more embarrassing a couple of hours ago," he says.

"He detests you," the fae says, smooth and wheedling. "He'll never want you."

"Maybe not." Rayner shrugs. "But he's also a lot less likely to drag me off to the bottom of a lake and eat me, so I think I'm better off sticking with him, all the same."

The fae screeches like a raptor making a swooping dive on its prey, and then transfigures itself one final time, reverting to its natural form: a well-muscled man with scaled skin and the head of a horse, its eyes blood red and its mouth filled with sharp, predator's teeth.

An Each-usige, which means they must have been captured by the Unseelie Court and they're _all_ in danger of being eaten, if not worse.

Their best course of action would be to return meekly to their cell and hope they subsequently get forgotten about, but instead Rayner takes it on himself to say: "You can have me if you like, but only if you do me a favour first."

"If it is within my power, then I will grant it," the Each-usige says eagerly.

"Then I want you to take me – take all of us – to meet with the King or Queen," Rayner says. "After that, I'm all yours."

"Gladly," the Each-usige says. "Come with me."

At a wave of its taloned hand, a nearby section of the wall slides back beyond which a narrow set of stone stairs climbs steeply upwards. The Each-usige mounts them first, closely trailed by Charlie, but when Rayner looks set to join them, Florian catches hold of his coat sleeve and holds him back.

"What in all the many hells are you thinking, Rayner," he hisses. "We don't stand a chance of defending ourselves against the fucking Unseelie King and Queen. How on earth is this supposed to help us?"

"I just reckoned we'd be better off up there in the palace than we are down here right now," Rayner says, shaking off Florian's hand. "There'll be some windows, at least, and some doors that lead outside. If we're lucky, we might be able to shake off that Each-usige and make our escape."

Privately, Florian doubts that they will be, but as he has no plan of his own to offer in place of Rayner's foolhardy one, he stays silent, and when Rayner heads towards the stairs, he follows on behind.

The staircase is much shorter than it had seemed to be from its base – another illusion, perhaps – and Florian's breath has barely even begun to quicken when he reaches the room at its summit. It seems to be some kind of entrance hall, lined on all sides by towering gilded doors set into walls carved from pearlescent stone. Contrary to Rayner's wishful expectations, there are no windows to be seen, and the sole source of illumination is a vast crystal chandelier hanging down from the high ceiling, casting hundreds of little rainbows of dancing light across the white marbled floor.

There are also what appears to be hundreds of fae crammed into the space, all standing together in huddled little groups of threes and fours, their heads bent together and engaged in hushed conversation. Florian spots several other Each-usiges amongst their number, in addition to bogles, nuckelavee, fachan, and a whole pack of Cù-sìth. 

But there are also brùnaidh, buachailleen, and ùruisg standing there right alongside them – Seelie fae, when all Florian's research on the subject of Elfhame had led him to believe that the two courts would never mingle so freely.

"What's going on?" he asks their Each-usige.

It ignores him and forges on through the crowds to one of the doors at the opposite side of the hall, which opens noiselessly at its touch.

"You will find the queen within," it says, stepping back and folding its beefy arms tightly across its broad chest. It levels a significant glare at Rayner before adding, "I'll wait for you here."

They walk not into a throne room, but a small, cosy sitting room, furnished not unlike one in the mortal realm might be, with a plush carpet underfoot, swagged curtains at the windows, and a sofa upholstered in chintzy fabric arranged in front of a green-tiled fireplace. 

The woman standing at the hearthside, eyes trained on the merrily crackling purple flames of the fire, has light brown skin, fair hair which falls in soft curls to her slim waist, and is just as beautiful as Florian has ever heard her described to be.

Their luck might actually be on the turn, as Rayner had hoped, as the Each-usige has not brought them to his own queen, but the queen of the Seelie Court.

"Your Majesty," Rayner says, bowing even more deeply to her than he had to his prince. "We're—"

"I know who you are," the queen says. "And I know you mean us no harm. Unfortunately, my husband and sister are not of the same mind and insisted on your imprisonment. They will be unhappy to hear of your escape from it, no doubt, but I'm glad for the opportunity to talk to you alone. 

"I think you may be able to help cure this pestilence which has beset our fair land."

"We travelled here hoping to do just that, Your Majesty," Florian says. "We will aid you in any way that we can."

"I thought that you would," the queen says, smiling sweetly. "Most of my people do not trust humans, but my youngest son married a mortal man, and before they retired to Elfhame, I visited them in your realm many times. There, I discovered that you don't all wish to destroy us and take the Otherworld as your own, as the old stories would have us believe." She glances towards one of the windows and frowns at the unnaturally blackened sky outside. "Though some of you are not so benign, it would seem."

"Do you know what is causing the pestilence, Your Majesty?" Florian asks.

The queen shakes her head. "It has not only consumed the palace of the Unseelie Court, but has sunk deep into the land for many miles around. And every day, its reach extends. We cannot get close enough to ascertain its exact nature, but before we were forced to abandon that part of the realm entirely, my sister did manage to pinpoint its source. 

"The poison is being introduced through one your mage's circles. The one that lies beneath your mortal king's palace."

"It can't be!" Florian protests in reflexive defensiveness. "I'm High Mage of one of the royal cadres, and I—"

He has been gone from the palace for weeks now, has received not a word of news from it in all that time, and there is no telling what might have been decided in his absence. What Prince Dafydd might have been persuaded by others to allow. Though he could not begin to explain what they might hope to achieve in perpetrating this abomination, he cannot claim with any certainty or authority that it is an impossible act, either.

"That poison will be so strong at its source that none of my people would be able to survive it," the queen continues, kindly ignoring Florian's outburst. "But I believe you mortals might. 

"I will set you three free, but ask a boon of you in return: You must go to your King's palace and find some way to stop this rot before it destroys the Otherworld entire."


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the long delay with this chapter! I had horrible insomnia for a few weeks and didn't get much of anything productive done for a while as a consequence...

* * *

Florian had been taught only a smattering of battle magic at school – a few, minor offensive spells of the sort more likely to inflict mild inconvenience upon their targets than any real damage. As Northern Britannia had been at peace with the Roman Empire for two hundred years, and with its nearest neighbours to the north and the south even longer, the Masters reasoned that it was a moribund field of study, and their time and energies were better spent teaching spells more useful to the modern mage destined to work for the nobility: illusions, glamours, and domestic magic of the sort that would serve to make their employers' lives of ease even easier.

Keeping the ability to melt stone and summon lightning out of the hands of oftentimes bored and occasionally belligerent adolescents was, Florian presumed, a serendipitous by-product of that decision.

By dint of its history, the palace was home to the kingdom's largest repository of books of battle magic, and Florian took full advantage of the new vistas of learning it afforded him. As Prince Dafydd made few demands on his time beyond insisting that he attend his riding lessons and the odd, regrettably mandatory ball, most of his days were spent in the library, poring over ancient, crumbling books of martial spells whilst Mayhew sporadically practised his swordplay in the training yard and otherwise idled away the hours pursuing his own amusements for lack of any meaningful work to occupy him, quickly making him the envy of the other court Seconds.

And thus the first five years of Florian's tenure as a cadre mage slipped quietly and uneventfully by. In seclusion, for the most part, as his new colleagues were no more inclined towards conducting their own research than his old schoolmates ever were.

High Mage Anderson was his most frequent companion, as it was his long-standing habit to retire to the library after dinner to sit in one of the deep leather armchairs arranged in front of the fireplace there and nod off over his postprandial glass of port.

He always took a keen interest in Florian's work, though, stopping by his desk en route to his nap in order to ask him: "What are you reading about now, my boy?"

Usually, that question would inspire nothing more than a few minutes of polite chit-chat, but this evening, when Florian replied, "Pyromancy, sir," the High Mage's face paled and he clutched tight, warning hold of Florian's shoulder.

"That's a bad business," he said, shaking his head. "Very dangerous."

"I know, sir," Florian said. The books on the subject were replete with stomach-churningly vivid – and somewhat outlandish – descriptions of the blood-boiling, skull-exploding toll that fire magic took on those mages who were not powerful or skilled enough to wield it properly. "I've no intention of trying to use it myself."

"Glad to hear it," High Mage Anderson said, his expression gentling. "Wouldn't want you to do yourself a mischief. Nasty stuff, pyromancy. Even the old Battle Mages didn't touch it unless they were backed into a corner and had no choice in the matter."

"Yes, sir," Florian said, "but I thought it best to learn as much about it as I can, all the same, just in case I do ever have to step in and protect His Highness, or we go to war, or—"

"You worry too much, lad," High Mage Anderson said. "There's not much chance of any of that. But I like that you're conscientious; it's a rare quality nowadays."

He released his grip on Florian's shoulder and stepped back, but instead of retreating to his customary spot by the fire, he retrieved a chair from one of the other desks dotted about the library and set it down alongside Florian's. He groaned as he seated himself, and then rubbed at his right knee and left hip, as he did more and more often of late.

"Do you want me to fetch you some willow bark pills, sir?" Florian asked.

"Ah, that's very kind of you, lad, but there's no need," High Mage Anderson said. "You get accustomed to aches and pains at my age." His voice dropped into a conspiratorial whisper. "I'm a hundred-and-twelve, you know."

"Really?" Florian said, rounding his eyes in feigned surprise. Alongside the weather and the deplorable state of today's youth, High Mage Anderson's venerable years were his favourite topic of conversation, though he disclosed them with the same air of revelation each time. "You don't look a day over eighty, sir."

Which was far from empty flattery as the High Mage was remarkably sprightly despite being plagued by rheumatism, still as sharp as a tack, and proof positive of magic's restorative powers which, he was fond of saying, had 'preserved him like vinegar does a pickled onion'. 

The High Mage chuckled appreciatively. "Nevertheless, I feel every single one of those years of late, especially first thing in the morning when I'm struggling to get out of my bed. Which is why I've decided that it's high time for me to retire."

Rumours that that sad event was imminent had been circulating court ever since Florian joined it, but the High Mage sounded very definite now, as though it had already been agreed upon with Prince Dafydd and practically a done deal.

"I'm sorry to hear that, sir," Florian said, with feeling. The High Mage was an avuncular man, whose genuine concern for his underlings' comfort and welfare, and readiness to lend a listening ear to their troubles, had eased Florian's transition into his new role considerably. He could not imagine either Mage Wilkinson or Mage Parker taking the time to familiarise themselves with his studies, or inviting him to their rooms of an evening to share a snifter of brandy and friendly conversation; even now, they still treated him like an interloper to their circle and an unwelcome one at that. "Do you know who your successor will be?"

The High Mage shook his head. "I've advised His Highness as best I can but, ultimately, the decision will be his. I can only hope he makes the right one."

Which sounded somewhat ominous to Florian, but the High Mage rebuffed all his attempts to engage him further on the subject in favour of rhapsodising about his plans for his retirement, which he intended to devote to wine, women and song in equal proportion.

Frustrated on that score, Florian turned to his next best source of information on the matter – Mayhew, who was both an incorrigible gossip and in possession of the sort of kind, open face and disarming manner that encouraged people, both highborn and low-, to admit him into their confidences. There was little that transpired in the palace that he did not eventually become privy to.

Usually, when he poked his head around Florian's door around midnight to ask if there was anything he needed doing, Florian – who was perfectly capable of laying out his own nightshirt and lighting his own lamps unaided – would decline his offer and wave him off to his bed. This night, when he instead urged Mayhew to step inside the room and close the door behind him, Mayhew complied readily, even eagerly, but with an expression of deep consternation attendant.

"Are you all right, sir?" he asked. "You're not feeling unwell, are you? I can get you—"

"I'm fine, thank you, Mayhew," Florian said quickly, knowing that his Second, if left unchecked, would proceed to list out anything and everything that crossed his mind that he could fetch that might offer succour – from a cold compress up to and including to the High Priest of the Silent God to say prayers at his bedside. "Perfectly hale and hearty. I was just wondering if you'd heard that the High Mage is going to be retiring soon."

"I have, sir," Mayhew said. "Though it's meant to be a bit hush-hush at the moment, Harrison – that's the High Mage's new Second, sir – did let something slip, accidental-like, when I happened to run into him in the pub last night. It was his day off, you see, and he'd made the most of it – completely raddled, he was, and saying all sorts of things he probably shouldn't.

"Turns out old Anderson has gone and bought himself a posh little flat in town, right near the opera house – you know how much he enjoys his music – and he's going to work on finishing his novel. It's about a young court mage who's quite the favourite of the noble ladies. Harrison's read the first couple of chapters, and he says it's quite racy, not at all what you'd expect from a quiet, dignified man like the High Mage, but—"

"And did Harrison happen to have any ideas about who might be chosen to replace the High Mage when he leaves?"

"Naw, but then it's going to be His Highness doing the choosing, not Anderson, isn't it," Mayhew said. "It'll probably be either Wilkinson or Parker, seeing as how they're already part of His Highness' cadre and all, but I reckon Mage Bell might be in with a chance, too, on account of his long service in the King's cadre. The King's High Mage is only fifty, so he's not likely to be popping off or retiring any time soon, so there'll not be much chance of Bell getting a promotion if he stays where he is."

Florian knew Mage Bell only by sight – a tall, saturnine figure lurking at the shadowy margins of various court festivities, sneering at the attendees for enjoying themselves in such a frivolous fashion, with all their talking, and laughing, and drinking. Hardly a good match for a bon vivant like Prince Dafydd, who considered the parties and balls he regularly hosted to be the very lifeblood of his courtly existence.

It was much more likely that Wilkinson or Parker would be rewarded with the post, though Florian couldn't fathom how His Highness would ever hope to choose between them. To Florian, they seemed almost to be a singular entity – always together, and always of the same mind on every matter.

That simpatico did not long survive the official announcement of High Mage Anderson's retirement the following day, however. Their individual ambitions rent them asunder, seemingly, and in the weeks that followed, Florian never once saw them keeping company of their own volition.

They spent far more of their time with Florian than with each other.

For five years, they had scarcely given him the time of day, but now they sought him out to ask his opinion of every subject under the sun – from the magical to the mundane; from proper runic form to their latest haircut – and then marvelled over his words as though they were some grand prophet's auguries.

Bell, being taciturn by nature, was not given to such pleasantries, but sent Florian several small yet expensive gifts in their stead: rare first editions of books long out of print; bottles of his favourite wine; beautifully embroidered pocket handkerchiefs and the like.

Florian found their courtesies by turns embarrassing and infuriating, knowing that they were inspired solely by self-interest and the hope that he might put in a good word for them with the High Mage, who was known to be quite fond of him. He was sorely tempted to tell both Wilkinson and Parker that he wasn't taken in by their pretence of friendship and could they kindly fuck off and leave him alone, and return all Bell's presents to sender, but Mayhew persuaded him that such a course of action, though eminently satisfying, would be working against his own best interests given that one of them was bound to become his superior in short order.

So, Florian ground his teeth together and forced a smile as he listened to Wilkinson and Parker's effusions, took vindictive enjoyment in blowing his nose on Bell's handkerchiefs, and endured it all, though it was somewhat of a struggle at times.

But no trial was more arduous than the dinners they shared with Prince Dafydd.

Once a week, they gathered to break bread together and, ostensibly, discuss cadre business. In actuality, scarcely a word about magic was ever spoken, and conversation tended towards discussing the latest court fashions, and dissecting the events of His Highness' latest ball just passed or making preparations for the next one yet to come.

Wilkinson and Parker were usually attentive to the prince, but since news of High Mage Anderson's retirement broke, they had been fawning, braying out exaggerated laughter at his every witticism and showering him with lavish compliments on his intelligence, good taste, and outfit du jour.

His Highness basked in their praise and had scant attention to spare for anything else – Florian himself very much included. The one amusing anecdote and two pithy comments Florian had stored away and rehearsed in preparation for this night's meeting had been met with nothing but a faint, distracted smile, and left him lacking anything else to say for himself that was liable to pique his prince's interest and prevent the other two mages from monopolising his time for the remainder of the evening.

Florian's food provided him with some much-needed solace, at least. Prince Dafydd had lately employed a new Gallian chef – poached direct from the _palais imperial_, it was said – and the man could work miracles in the kitchen, transforming even the humblest ingredients into exquisitely delicious dishes that were far greater than the sum of their parts. Florian was most appreciative of these acts of culinary magic – a little too appreciative, perhaps, if his ever-tightening waistband was any measure – and today's _blanquette de veau_ was, he thought, one of the chef's most dazzling successes. It was only fitting that he honoured the man's efforts with his full concentration.

He was so enrapt in the delicate flavours of the ragout that he didn't notice that His Highness had something to say to him until he'd repeated his name several times and High Mage Anderson, seated beside him, had given him a prompting nudge to the ribs with his elbow.

Florian's face flushed with embarrassed heat and he hastily dropped his knife and fork. "My apologies, Your Highness," he said, his head deferentially lowered. "You wished to speak to me?"

"I did," Prince Dafydd said, his normally light, airy tone blackened by a strain of anger, though that was quick to dissipate when he continued with: "I was just telling Mage Parker that my brother has decided to form his own cadre."

As was his right as a prince – though Prince Caerwyn had exiled himself from court just two days after Florian joined it, and since become estranged from his family, the king had not yet disowned him. And until the king made the decision to do so, His Highness' brother would keep his title and his generous allowance, and could employ as many mages as he pleased.

"And the first mage he's recruited is someone you're quite familiar with," Prince Dafydd said. "Lord Jonathan Rayner."

"Ah," Florian said, because he was so discombobulated by the mention of that name that coherence escaped him momentarily.

Neither the Earl of Cataractonium nor his son ever attended court, and once the initial furore over Florian's appointment to Prince Dafydd's cadre ahead of Rayner had died down, they were so seldom talked about in the palace that Florian had been quite content to foster his own delusion that the man himself had ceased to exist alongside all mention of him.

The untimely reminder about the reality of the situation was very disconcerting.

"My brother thinks very highly of him, but we all know that, when the time came, you proved yourself to be the better mage," Prince Dafydd said. 

"Yes, Your Highness," Florian said dully. He didn't much like to think about his victory over Rayner in their final tests, either, as it had never sat quite right with him. He had speculated for far too long afterwards that the result might not have been the same if Rayner hadn't been fool enough to drink himself into oblivion the night prior.

"And yet Caerwyn won't stop crowing about getting his hands on the man, apparently. Thinks it quite the coup, by all accounts," Prince Dafydd said, his voice darkening again, and with it, his mood.

Despite Wilkinson and Parker's best efforts at entertaining him, His Highness remained brooding and silent throughout the rest of the meal, and dismissed them all the second after the last of their plates were cleared away.

Florian's own spirits were equally dampened, now that the knowledge of Rayner's continued existence had been thrust most unwillingly to the forefront of his mind again. Memories of his past failures and disappointments at the College followed hard on its heels, and Florian lost most of the night to chewing them over, wondering whether Prince Dafydd had ever crowed to anyone about securing Florian's place in his cadre, and imagining all the many, varied and spectacular ways Rayner might demonstrate his supposed brilliance in service of _his_ prince.

He'd only managed to catch a scattered handful of hours' sleep before a knock at his chamber door roused him far too early the next morning, and he felt unequal to answering it, never mind responding to the summons that the waiting footman then pressed into his hand when he did eventually scrape together sufficient wit and determination to crawl out of his bed.

But respond to them he must, as the short note bore the royal crest, and it requested Florian's presence in Prince Dafydd's study at his earliest possible convenience.

Florian knew that his own convenience didn't enter into it where His Highness was concerned, so he splashed some water on his face to wash the sleep out of his eyes, threw on the nearest set of clothes to hand, and hurried to the study with a swift certainty of tread that he would struggle to emulate at any other time, well-rested or no.

His Highness looked little better than Florian felt, his normally bright complexion grey and his eyes rimmed with dark circles, as though he too had had an unsettled night. After Florian seated himself at the other side of the prince's desk as he was directed to, they engaged in the usual round of desultory small talk for a moment or two, and then the prince leant back in his chair, and announced without a breath of preamble:

"I would like to offer you the position of my new High Mage."

Florian's heartbeat reverberated almost painfully loud in his ears and he felt sick and dizzy in a way he hadn't experienced since the day Master Hainsworth had invited him into her office to present him with an equally unexpected, though not quite as prestigious, offer.

"I… Your Highness, I…" 

Florian wanted to say so many things – that he was flattered, and honoured, and, damningly, surely too young for the role, still far too green for such a great responsibility – but they all eluded him and he could only gasp and stammer until the prince took pity on him.

"You'd be the youngest High Mage in history, I believe," he said.

On the subject of history, Florian was on much firmer ground and far surer of himself. "Yes, Your Highness," he said, quite calmly. "Maria Longfellow was appointed High Mage when she was thirty-two, and she—"

"And will _you_ accept my appointment?" Prince Dafydd interrupted him.

"Of course, Your Highness," Florian said without hesitation, despite his reservations and doubts. It wasn't his place to question the prince's decisions, after all; he must think Florian well-qualified and ready to take up High Mage Anderson's mantle. "Gladly."

Prince Dafydd talked on, outlining the benefits Florian would be accorded alongside his new title – finer quarters, a better horse, even his own crest – but, shamefully, Florian barely heard a word of them.

He was too preoccupied by his own thoughts. Even though he should be long past caring – and, until last night, he'd thought that he _was_ – his overwhelming feeling in that moment was not pride in his accomplishments and the prince's belief in him, but the mingled sense of relief and giddy happiness he took in the realisation that he'd finally achieved something that Rayner would never, ever be able to take away from him.


	22. Chapter 22

* * *

Despite the Seelie Queen herself sending them on their way, the journey from the Otherworld to the mortal realm is not an easy one. 

Florian feels as though he'd been gripped tight by some giant, invisible, and above all, clumsy hand and then hurled with immense power and haphazard aim back through the circle. When he re-emerges in the cave near Lord Henry's estate, his ribs are aching so hard that he can scarcely catch a clean breath and he sways, vertiginously off-kilter, and likely would have toppled over had Rayner not caught hold of his elbow and helped him regain his balance.

"Bit of a bumpy ride, wasn't it?" Rayner says, one side of his lips quirking up into a rueful half-smile. He nods towards his brother, who is crouched on the floor at the other side of the circle, his knees drawn up to his chest and his head drooping down despondently between them. "Charlie looks like he's about to throw up. You all right to stand, De Courcy?"

"Of course," Florian says automatically, because Rayner appears to be completely unaffected by their recent experiences, the perfect picture of good health and unfairly steady on his feet

Rayner looks at him dubiously and removes the support of his hand from Florian's arm with slow caution, ready and prepared to grab him again at the first sign of a wobble. Florian's legs do shake a little but, thankfully, he remains standing firm, if at somewhat of an oblique angle.

Which is more than can be said for Charlie. 

When Rayner drags him upright again, Charlie teeters drunkenly back and forth for a moment before his knees buckle, his legs give out, and he pitches forward like a felled tree, colliding heavily with Rayner, who only just manages to catch him in time to keep him from crashing straight back to the floor.

"I take it you don't feel up to walking right now?" Rayner asks.

"Not right now, no," Charlie says, leaning his forehead against Rayner's broad shoulder. "Though give it an hour or ten, and I think I might be able to make it to the other side of the cave."

Rayner glances down at his bowed head and then across at Florian, his eyes narrowed consideringly.

"I'm going to translocate us back home," he announces.

"You can't!" Charlie cries out, in the same instant as Florian says, "Don't be ridiculous, Rayner."

"I don't see why not," Rayner says to his brother. "Given the state of you both, it'd probably take the best part of a day to get out of here otherwise, and we can't spare the time."

"I'm sure a few hours' delay won't make that much difference," Florian says, but Rayner shakes his head.

"You saw how bad the rot was, and how quickly it was spreading," he says. "A few hours could make all the difference in the world."

"You'll make yourself sick, Jack," Charlie protests.

"It's only five miles; I'll barely have to draw on any extra magic at all. I can't imagine it'll affect me too badly."

"And what about us?" Florian asks. "If your spell misfires—"

"It won't. I haven't had a spell misfire on me since school." His expression is set, resolute, and he's clearly determined to follow the course of action he's already decided upon, no matter what perfectly reasonable objections Florian and Charlie might throw at him. Stubborn bastard. "Don't worry; we'll all be fine. Trust me."

* * *

When they rematerialise in the estate's entrance hall – startling a high-pitched scream from the redoubtable Jenkins who was passing through it at the time – Rayner is fine for a scant handful of seconds before collapsing into a waxen-skinned, shivering, and profusely sweating tangle of limbs upon the marble-tiled floor. 

Jenkins regains his composure with admirable swiftness, and hurries to Rayner's side before Florian and Charlie have even had chance to think about moving.

"What's wrong, sir?" he asks, stooping to brush clinging strands of hair back from Rayner's clammy brow. "Are you ill?" Upon receiving nothing but a low, gurgling moan in answer from Rayner, the butler turns instead to Charlie. "Should I send for a doctor, sir? If only your mother were here, then—"

"Naw, there's nowt a doctor could do for him. Not even Ma," Charlie says. "He's overdone it with the magic, is all. He just needs to sleep it off."

"But not on the hallway floor, surely, sir," Jenkins says, pursing his lips disapprovingly. "He'd be much better off in his own bed."

Rayner resists all attempts to revive him, so Jenkins calls for two of the household's burliest footmen, one of whom hooks his arms around Rayner's knees, the other, his shoulders, and, with little apparent effort on their parts, they haul him away slung between them like a hefty and awkwardly shaped sack of flour. Jenkins scurries after them, wringing his hands and clucking like an anxious hen.  
  
"I suppose I'd best go on up too and make sure he's comfortable, then let Da and Fox know what's been happening," Charlie says through a poorly stifled yawn. "You can head off to bed if you want, Flos. If you feel even half as bad as I do, I know you'll be needing it."

Florian extends him the expected politeness of a token objection, insisting – though not with any great vehemence – that he's more than willing to lend a hand if needs be, but Charlie, very kindly, stands firm and waves aside all his offers of help.

Conscience soothed if not entirely clear, Florian retires to his borrowed bedroom. Rose-tinted light streams through the broad window there, and the wispy clouds in the darkening sky outside are gilded on their undersides by the setting sun. Dusk is drawing in, suggesting that they'd lost at least one full day to the Otherworld, if not two.

Florian closes the curtains, removes his boots and shrugs off his coat, but then abruptly loses his impetus to undress. The act of unfastening the ties of his trousers requires a level of coordination that is far beyond the current faculties of his muzzy brain, and his shirt buttons are too small and too numerous for his fumbling fingers to navigate.

He falls onto the bed half-dressed, and stares blearily up at the ceiling, his eyes fogging with sleep.

Some time later, he rolls onto his side in an effort to ease the dull ache that has set in at the small of his back. The pillows are piled too high to support his head properly in this new position, bending his neck at an unnatural angle, so he takes a moment to rearrange them. He stares at the nearest bedpost until he tires of the view and then turns over onto his other side. The left-hand bedpost proves equally dreary in short order and he flips onto his back again. A new spot of pain builds between his shoulder blades, his feet are too cold and his legs are too hot, and no matter how tightly he screws his eyes closed, they spring open again of their own volition moments later.

He feels strangely enervated and energised at the same time, as though his body has forgotten how to relax, his mind how to sleep. It's not an unfamiliar sensation, and it's one he knows can't be fixed by persisting in lying there, doggedly trying to ignore that it's happening.

No matter how bone-deep exhausted he already is, he needs to get up and find something to do that will tire him out yet further.

A short investigation of the room's small bookcase yields a likely looking volume – a chronicle of the author's travels in Helvetia which, judging by the first chapter, promises to be productively dull and hard going – and he sits down on the short sofa set in front of the fireplace and attempts to read.

By the second chapter, the book's dense prose has become nigh on impenetrable, and Florian's gaze slips inexorably from the page to fixate, unbidden, on the fire burning in the hearth.

He watches the flickering dance of the flames until a sharp knock at the door startles him from his reverie an indeterminate stretch of time later.

"Are you up and about?" Charlie bellows out at a volume that couldn't fail to awaken even the most dedicated and deepest of sleepers.

"I am," Florian calls back. And, because he could clearly do with the distraction Charlie is bound to provide, he adds, "Please, come in."

Charlie obliges, and then winces when he takes his first look at Florian's face.

"Can't sleep either?" He holds aloft the two brimming glasses of whisky he's carrying. "Well, I have the perfect remedy for that."

"Ah, my favourite sedative," Florian says with a grateful smile.

"I prescribe a large dose swiftly taken," Charlie says, handing Florian one of the glasses. "I've always found that to be most effective."

He seats himself on the other side of the sofa and then drains half his own glass in a single swallow. His cheeks flush, his eyelids droop to half-mast, and his tongue gets tied up in a knot, seemingly, as he remains abnormally unresponsive thereafter, replying to all the idle questions Florian poses him in a bid to make conversation with nothing more than a nod or shake of his head.

His silence is unnerving, not only because it's so unlike him, but it also seems to be such a loaded one. Charlie keeps glancing towards Florian and then quickly away again the instant their eyes meet, restlessly shifting his weight, and swiping the tip of his tongue across his bottom lip as if in preparation for speech.

There obviously _is_ something he wants to say, but it's not until he downs the rest of his whisky that he finds the courage and the will to vocalise it.

"That thing that happened with the Each-usige in the Otherworld," he begins in a falsely casual tone, "who it turned itself into, that was a bit odd, wasn't it?" He looks sidelong at Florian, and his voice drops into a whisper. "Did you know before that? About how Jack used to feel about you?

"He" – gave me a practical demonstration– "mentioned something along those lines in the cell just before we escaped," Florian says.

"Really?" Charlie sounds astonished. "I always thought he'd be too embarrassed to own up to it to anyone else."

"Charming," Florian says, offended despite himself.

"Not because it was you, Flos!" Charlie quickly assures him. "Because he acted like such an idiot about it all."

"He did?" Whilst much of Rayner's behaviour at school had seemed idiotic to Florian, none of it was ever of a romantic nature, barring his incomprehensible dalliance with Rhys. "In what way?"

Florian expects Charlie to be reticent about answering, to demur and deflect the question given his brother's supposed reserve concerning matters of the heart, but instead the words flow from with all the speed and force of water bursting out of a punctured dam, as though they've been shored up and held back for so long that they're impossible to stem.

"He followed you around like a lovesick puppy for the best part of a year after he split up with Rhys; I can't believe you never noticed that," Charlie says. "And when we were home for the holidays, he never stopped talking about you, which you couldn't possibly have known about, but still… He was always telling Ma and Da that 'De Courcy says this' and 'De Courcy does that'; Ma used to joke that the only thing she didn't know about you was your shoe size and Da was so convinced that Jack'd be popping the question any day soon that he started researching your family tree to make sure that none of your relatives were pirates or something like that.

"And do you remember that book he gave you when you came of age? I'd mentioned in passing a couple of years beforehand how much you wanted a copy – I swear he wrote down everything he ever heard about you in those journals he used to keep; he never forgot _a single thing_ – and he insisted we couldn't possibly get you anything else. 

"He dragged me up and down the whole bloody island for over two months looking for it – Caledonia to Cornubia and back again. We finally tracked it down to this tiny old bookshop in Y Gelli in Cambria. It cost Jack almost half of his yearly allowance, but he said it'd be worth it just to see the look on your face when you saw it.

"And," Charlie's voice drops even lower, "I'm half-convinced that he deliberately fucked up his final test at school to make sure you got the job in Prince Dafydd's cadre and not him."

Florian had been listening to Charlie's revelations with diffuse bafflement, as the actions of the boy he's describing are so far removed from the Rayner that Florian had thought he'd known in his youth that they seem wholly disconnected from him, but these words strike him like a physical blow to the stomach.

"What?" he gasps out, winded by the strength of it.

Charlie boggles at him, mouth agape, and then lunges across the width of the sofa to wrap his hand around Florian's wrist. 

"I'm sorry, Flos," he says. "Sorry, I shouldn't have said that; my mouth just runs away from me sometimes. It's just something I used to wonder about, probably nonsense. Jack's never admitted anything, either way."

But now that seed of suspicion has been sown, Florian won't be able to keep from fussing over it; nurturing it. Obsessing about it. He wants to know the truth. He _needs_ to know it, otherwise he'll never get any peace from the thought and doubting himself because of it.

"Well, I should go and find out what he has to say for himself on the matter, shouldn't I," he says coldly. "Put it to rest."

"Not now, Flos," Charlie says, his grip on Florian's wrist tightening. "Please, leave it be until tomorrow, at least. Jack's probably still in a bad way, and—"

Florian wrenches his arm free of Charlie's grasp, gets to his feet, and sets out towards the room the footman who showed him to his own had pointed out as Rayner's when they passed it by, closing his ears to the plaintive sound of Charlie calling out his name.

Though he had sallied forth with great conviction, a little more of his righteous indignation seems to drain out of him with every step he takes. By the time he fetches up outside Rayner's door, he's very unsure of himself. Charlie's likely right – he perhaps should have waited. Given the appalling state Rayner had been in when the footmen toted him away, he's doubtless in no condition to have a rational discussion, even if he does happen to be awake.

Tomorrow it will have to be, but before breakfast, for preference. Florian can't imagine he would be able to summon up much of an appetite, otherwise.

Decision made, he turns around, meaning to head back to his room, but before he can make a move, the door swings open and Rayner peers out at him, squinting myopically.

"Oh, it's you, De Courcy," he says, sounding vaguely horrified at the discovery. "I was expecting it to be Jenkins. Just… Just give me a minute. I need to…"

He slams the door closed again, and a great deal of banging and crashing about ensues from behind it.

Whatever he had been so busily and noisily engaged with isn't entirely obvious when he eventually reappears to usher Florian inside the room. Throwing on a dressing gown over his nightshirt wouldn't have caused such a commotion, and he clearly hadn't been tidying up.

The room is far larger than their erstwhile dorm and Rayner's current quarters at the lodge, but still manages to feel more cramped than both due to the amount of clutter strewn about the place: not only piles of dirty clothes, tattered sheaves of paper and books, but battered pieces of leather armour, fishing tackle, and half-finished oil and watercolour paintings of pastoral scenes propped against the every spare inch of wall space in-between the furniture, dried-out palettes of paint and balding brushes scattered out across the floor in front of them.

An ageing brown spaniel with a white-speckled muzzle hobbles over, stiff-legged, to wuffle gently at Florian's stockinged feet. It wags its tail twice, evidently approving of his scent, but before Florian has chance to pat its head in greeting, it wanders off to circle around and make its bed on top of an inside-out woollen jumper discarded at the side of the wardrobe.

"That's Nutmeg," Rayner tells Florian. "He was supposed to be a hunting dog but he's scared of horses, so now he's just a pet."

He gestures for Florian to take a seat on the armchair pulled up close by the side of his bed, and then perches himself on the edge of the mattress, facing it.

"I take it you wanted to talk to me about something, De Courcy," he says.

Now he's here, Florian should forge on, despite his misgivings. Rayner's clearly not at death's door, perfectly coherent, and he really does need to know the truth, for better or for worse.

"Did you deliberately sabotage your final test at school so I'd graduate ahead of you?" he asks.

"Ah, fuck," Rayner groans. "Thank you, Charlie." He grimaces, and then pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger as though trying to soothe incipient headache. "'Sabotage' is a bit of a strong word for it. So's 'deliberately', come to that."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I didn't much fancy working at court, and I… I knew you did, so I just… stopped trying so hard to do well. I didn't revise enough, went out and got pissed the night before our tests, and so on. I didn't fuck up that spell on purpose – you know the Masters would have seen straight through it – but I have to admit I was hoping something like that might happen anyway."

"But surely you could have just refused to accept the post in His Highness' cadre even if he had offered it to you," Florian says.

"Even the nobility don't get to say no to a prince, De Courcy," Rayner says. "And he'd fair set his sights on having me work for him, probably because I'd put his nose out of joint by refusing to attend all the balls and parties he kept on inviting me to. 

"Caerwyn told me that Dafydd had made an agreement with their father that he'd employ whichever of us did better in his test, though, and the king wouldn't let him go back on his word when the results didn't turn out the way he'd expected them to. They had a massive fight about it afterwards, and Dafydd stormed off to the palace in a strop. He refused to come back and tell you you'd got the job, so the king had to arrange for one of his servants to let you know."

So, not only his victory over Rayner in their tests was tainted. He'd always known that his appointment to His Highness' cadre had caused upset at the palace, but he'd liked to think that Prince Dafydd wasn't entirely displeased by it. He'd been fooling himself, it seems. 

"No doubt everything would have worked out nicely if he had got his way," Florian says bitterly. "Everyone at the palace was ready to welcome you with open arms. You would have done well there."

"No, I wouldn't." Rayner snorts. "I hate being at court; the place is a snake pit. All that politicking, and everyone kissing your arse with one side of their mouths and talking shit about you with the other – I couldn't stand it. 

"No matter how it started, I think it all worked out for the best in the end. We're both exactly where we need to be. And you obviously proved yourself to Dafydd, otherwise he never would have made you his High Mage."

Florian has long been suspicious about the timing of his promotion – and never more so than now, given what Rayner has just told him – coming, as it did, so hard on the heels of the news that Rayner had joined Prince Caerwyn's cadre. The brothers were always trying to needle and get one up on each other even at a distance, and what else could outdo the youngest mage in centuries but the appointment of the youngest High Mage in history.

"Maybe," he equivocates.

"There's no 'maybe' about it," Rayner says. "You're an amazing mage, De Courcy, and I've no doubt you earned that position fair and square."

"Oh." Although Prince Caerwyn had already intimated during the meal they took together that Rayner respected his talents, it was quite something else to hear the same sentiment direct from his lips. There was no dismissing it this time, and Florian's face flushed with flustered heat. "Thank you, Rayner."

Rayner shrugs. "I might be able to cast more powerful magic, but you've always had more… more finesse. And I'm certain you're more knowledgeable about spells than I'll ever be."

"Yes, well, I do apply myself to my research, unlike some," Florian says. "Did you ever even study at school?"

"Of course I did!" Rayner says. "In our room, or in the grounds, and even in the pub sometimes when we were older. You just never saw me do it because you were always in the library. I didn't like it there because it was freezing cold, and stank of mould, and Master Taylor was a cantankerous old bugger."

"No, he wasn't," Florian protests hotly. "He was a lovely man."

"Only if you were a teacher's pet, then…" Rayner laughs, shaking his head. "Anyway, that was all years ago, none of it matters anymore, and in conclusion, we're both brilliant."

Rayner's grin is so broad and radiant that Florian can't help but match it. "If you say so, Rayner," he says.

"I do. And I also say we should have a drink. I don't know about you, but I certainly need one."

Florian's throat is parched, and he'd barely had chance to wet his mouth with the whisky Charlie had given him. "What have you got?" he asks.

"Well, there's the brandy Jenkins left out for me," Rayner says. "It was a present from one of Da's friends but it's so strong and tastes so vile that it's been relegated to medicinal use only. Will that do you? I can ring for a servant to bring something else up for you, if you like."

That sounds as though it would take entirely too long. "The brandy will be fine, thank you," Florian says.

Rayner fills two small glasses from the bottle set out on top of his chest of drawers, hands one to Florian, and then sits back down on the bed, his shoulders propped up against the headboard. When he stretches out his legs along the mattress, his loosely belted dressing gown falls open and his nightshirt rides up a little, revealing the full length of his calves to the knee.

Rayner had never been particularly modest at school, and Florian had grown mostly inured to the sight of his bare skin then, but somehow it seems strangely indecent now. He hurriedly raises his gaze up towards Rayner's face.

Rayner is already looking straight at him, frowning faintly.

"What's wrong, Rayner?" Florian asks sharply, worried that Rayner might have mistaken his accidental staring for something other than momentary absent-mindedness. 

"Nothing," Rayner says. "It's just… It's still strange to see you drinking. You looked like you'd rather die than choke down that cider I bought you at the Moon Festival, and you never touched another drop of alcohol until your coming of age party."

It's an oddly small detail to remember all these years later. Florian barely recalls it himself, as most of that night was subsequently scoured from his memory by his overindulgence. 

"Well, it is an acquired taste." And one he's acquired a little _too_ well. He's certain Mother would disapprove and call it a crutch if he ever dared to admit to her how often he partakes of the habit nowadays. "And, like I said before, people do change."

"That they do," Rayner says, and he sounds significantly less melancholy about his agreement this time.

They lapse into silence, and Florian sips slowly on his brandy. It tastes just as vile as Rayner had warned him it would, but, thankfully, it's just as strong, too.

The warmth of it settling deep in his belly, the heat of the fire built up high in Rayner's hearth, and the quiet are all soporific, lulling Florian closer to sleep than he's been all night.

As Rayner is unlikely to appreciate him nodding off at his bedside, Florian forcibly rouses himself to ask, "Do you have any ideas on how we might go about healing the Otherworld?"

"Not a clue," Rayner says. "But that why I wanted us to start moving as quickly as we can.

"We need to get back to the lodge if we're going to have a hope in hell of fixing anything. Caerwyn's bound to know of some way we can sneak into the palace and find out what the fuck's going on with the circle there."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... I've been looking forward to writing this chapter for so long!
> 
> And now on to catching up with replying to comments (apologies for getting so behind yet again...)!


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short chapter this time (a bridge, of sorts) and the last one to be set in the past.

* * *

When Florian was nine, his mother decided that he was sensible, mature, and grown-up enough to make the quarter mile walk to and from school on his own so as to spare poor Grandmama from having to trek halfway across the city four times a day to accompany him.

For the most part, Florian took this new responsibility very seriously: he didn't talk to strangers, never dallied, always looked both ways before crossing the street, and when he got home, he let himself in with the key he kept safely hidden inside the inner pocket of his coat at all other times and then spent the remainder of the afternoon quietly reading his schoolbooks so he didn't disturb Mother at her work in the surgery at the front of their house.

But once a week, on the day Mother ran her free clinic and would be at her busiest and most distracted, he _did_ dally, just a little, taking a slight detour on his way home so he could stop at a shop on Stonegate Road.

The battered wooden sign that hung above the door declared its proprietor, Mr Lawson, to be a '_Purveyor of Fine Antiques_', but most of the goods on display behind its one dusty, mullioned window were merely old rather than deserving an epithet as grand as 'antique': tarnished silver snuffboxes; cloisonné vases with most of their enamel worn away; and cross-eyed porcelain dogs and horses which were one short of their full complement of ears or legs.

The sort of ornamental detritus that piled up, forgotten, in attics, cellars, and outhouses because it was too damaged or ugly to be given houseroom but also just a little too nice to be thrown away.

And then there was the painting.

The handwritten tag hanging from it proclaimed its worth to be three pounds – a price far beyond the means of anyone likely to be visiting the shops on Stonegate Road which, Florian had imagined then, was the only possible reason that it went unsold week after week, month after month, because otherwise it was one of the most marvellous things he'd ever seen.

Its subject, according to the miniature brass plaque affixed to the base of the cracked gilt frame was 'Mage Harper at the Battle of Cataractonium', and the man himself was depicted standing at the top of a cliff sneering down upon an ant-like phalanx of Roman soldiers marching towards the city sketched with faint brushstrokes at the edge of the canvas.

His face was proud, patrician, his upraised hands filled with tame lightning. His long robe shimmered with silk and golden threads, brighter than the storm-lashed sky above him.

He looked powerful and magnificent; everything Florian wished he could be. 

But such things seemed far beyond the reach of boys with names like Edmund Blenkinsop, whose mothers were doctors and whose fathers were shiftless, absentee bastards who might well be dead for all anyone knew, and both of them without a single speck of magic in their bodies.

Florian might never be able to achieve what Harper did – master the elements and serve as mage to a king – but he _could_ own the painting, and then he'd be able look at it and admire it just as long and as often as he liked.

He squirrelled away every shilling of the allowance Mother gave him and the copper pennies that Grandmama occasionally gifted him to 'get himself some sweets' despite Mother's prohibition on them, and slowly but surely, over the course of a year, managed to gather together the three pounds he needed in order to buy it.

But by then it was gone, sold for its frame, Mr Lawson told him when he went inside the shop for the first time to enquire about it, because the painting itself was amateurish and practically worthless, fit for nothing more than kindling.

Florian had mourned the loss of that painting for years, castigating himself for not being quick enough or thrifty enough to save it from its ignominious fate, but now, he thought, he might finally have been able to bring it back to life in some small way.

"What do you think, High Mage?" the royal tailor, Atkinson, asked him anxiously.

Florian studied his reflection in the full-length mirror in front of him. The midnight blue silk robe the tailor had created for him was a perfect replica of Harper's, down to the twisting vines of gold embroidery around the sleeve cuffs and hem. 

Florian might be lacking Harper's noble mien and athletic physique, but the picture he painted was not a displeasing one, nevertheless.

"It's wonderful; thank you, Atkinson," he said. "And now, the final touch."

He slid his bare feet into the beautiful brocade slippers he'd had made on special order by a shoemaker in Londinium. They'd caused quite the sensation when he'd worn them to His Highness' dinner party the previous night.

"Are you sure that's wise, sir?" Lord Hughes said from his station by the fitting room door. "I think a sturdy pair of boots might suit your purposes better."

Lord Hughes was one of Prince Dafydd's closest advisors, and he'd taken it upon himself to dog Florian's steps of late, so he could be on hand to better find fault and pick holes in all Florian's plans.

'_Maybe you should take a weapon with you, sir; we have a number of bronze swords and maces in the armoury_'; '_Have you thought about leather armour, sir? I believe the old Battle Mages used to wear it_'; '_You might consider taking more soldiers with you, sir. Better safe than sorry, I always say_.'

_Perhaps you shouldn't be going along on this patrol at all, sir. After all, as High Mage, your place is by His Highness' side_.

"But I do not," Florian said sharply. The slippers were as close a match to Mage Harper's as he'd been able to manage, and he'd hardly be marching on foot like the soldiers. When engaged in battle, Mages stood tall atop a distant mountains, raining fire and lightning down on their enemies; they did not grapple with them in the mud or go trekking about the moors, necessitating thick soles on their shoes. "I will not be wearing boots, Lord Hughes."

"Very well, sir," Lord said. His sour tone of voice was more suggestive of the sentiment, 'You're clearly an idiot, sir', though the man was far too diplomatic and fond of his position in court to ever let such words pass his lips.

"I would suggest wearing a shirt and trousers beneath the robe, sir," Atkinson piped up. "It might be a bit draughty, otherwise. It's fierce cold out on those moors, so I'm told."

Florian shook his head; a shirt and trousers would just ruin the flowing lines of the robe. 

"Thank you for the advice, Atkinson, but I think I'll go without," Florian said. "Are we finished here?"

At Atkinson's nod, Florian swept past Lord Hughes and on out of the tailor's workroom to the corridor beyond, where Mayhew was waiting for him.

"You look fancy, sir," Mayhew said in greeting. "Like a mage from one of those old paintings in the library."

"That was the general idea, Mayhew," Florian said, pleased that his efforts were not unappreciated in at least one quarter.

His Highness had provided him with ceremonial robes which he wore when taking part in the parades which marked each royal birthday and the anniversary of the Roman retreat from Britannia, but they were open-fronted and only fell to the knee – nothing like the ones he had dreamt of as a child.

"You might be best off with boots rather than those slippers, though, sir," Mayhew said. "They're pretty and all, but probably not very practical."

"They have a heel, which makes them practical for riding, and that's all they need to be," Florian said. 

"But if there's fighting—"

"If there's fighting, we'll be keeping our distance, not throwing ourselves into the fray."

"I don't know, sir…" Mayhew frowned dubiously at the slippers, and then lifted his eyes to subject the rest of Florian's attire to the same scathing evaluation. "All the soldiers we're going to be riding out with are green recruits; things could get messy. You've seen the reports, you know Prince Caerwyn sometimes sends Mage Rayner out with _his_ border patrols."

Which was precisely why Florian wanted to accompany a border patrol of his own, despite Mayhew and Lord Hughes repeatedly counselling him against it. Those reports, though official documents penned by stolid military officers, were practically poetic in their descriptions of Rayner's prowess on the field of battle, almost worshipful in their recounting of his skill in wielding his magic, and Florian wanted to see for himself if they were true.

"I do," he said.

"So you know exactly how dangerous this all could be!" Mayhew said, almost growling the words in his frustration. "And yet you won't wear armour, and you won't let me teach you how to use a sword! What will we do if we happen to run into Mage Rayner?"

"Well," Florian says, smiling grimly, "I suppose we'll find out which of us is the better mage then, won't we?"


	24. Chapter 24

* * *

Despite having the waxy, hollow-eyed appearance of a man recovering from a long illness, Rayner still insists on rising with the sun again the next morning to make their journey back to the lodge. He lists in the saddle, hands only loosely clasping his reins, but sets a punishing pace, nonetheless, giving no quarter on account of his exhaustion, never mind anyone else's.

They spend so much time at the trot that even Charlie is too winded to talk, and pass most of their ride in silence which is occasionally punctuated by Fox pleading with Rayner to slow down, perhaps even stop for a moment, because he looks like he's practically knocking on death's door. Her concern only encourages him to spur his horse into going even faster, and she eventually gives up on him and drops back to ride alongside Charlie, so the two of them can share sporadic, breathless complaints about Rayner's bull-headed idiocy.

They make good time, and it's only just started to drop dark when they clatter into the lodge's stable yard. Rayner slides from his saddle before his horse has even come to a halt, and calls to one of the grooms who's stuck his head out of the hay barn's door to see what the commotion is:

"Could you take care of Buttercup for me? I need to see Prince Caerwyn right away."

"Just slow down a minute, will you, Jack?" Charlie says. "Just rest for a while and have some food, at least. You haven't had a bite to eat since breakfast, and—"

His words are spent and wasted on the empty air, as Rayner pivots abruptly on his heel and marches off towards the lodge without sparing his brother so much as a backwards glance.

"He's like this whenever he gets a bee in his bonnet about something," Charlie says to Florian, "just pushes and pushes himself until he collapses, then he'll be out of commission for a week or more. His good sense flies out of the window, and there's no talking to him." He sighs. "Come on, Flos. I suppose I should get you back to your room."

They pass the reins of their horses to the grooms, then Charlie leads Florian back on up to his gaol cell.

"If I were you, I'd try and get to sleep as soon as you can," Charlie says when he leaves Florian at the door. "Jack'll probably want us to go storming the palace or something first thing tomorrow morning."

As Florian is both saddle-sore and weary, he has every intention of following Charlie's advice, but the sad state of his room conspires against him. 

The hearth fire has been allowed to burn low, and the air is dank and chill, the smell of mould overwhelming after several days' absence from it. Cracking open the window helps to disperse some of the stench, but the chill wind that whistles through it renders unappealing the prospect of soaking in the lukewarm water the tub's taps dribble out, even though Florian's covered with road dust from head to toe and intolerably itchy with it.

Instead, he undresses himself piecemeal, scrubbing at his most pertinent parts with a washcloth as they’re revealed to his view, then quickly pulls on his nightshirt and dashes across the room to throw himself into bed.

The blankets are damp and musty, but Florian winds them tightly around himself in an effort to trap as much of his own body heat as he can against his skin. 

He falls asleep to the sound of his teeth chattering and is woken what seems to be only a moment later by Rayner roughly shaking his shoulder.

Florian scrambles into a sitting position, pulling the blankets up tight under his chin, the knuckles of his clenched hand pressed to the hollow of his throat where his pulse is thundering like the hoofbeats of a galloping horse.

"What is it?" he asks, squinting to make out Rayner's face beyond the glaring bright light of the lamp he's carrying. "What's going on, Rayner?"

For a long while, Rayner doesn't answer. He sets the lamp down on the small table at Florian's bedside, then walks to the far side of the room and back, over and again. As he paces, Florian's eyes slowly become accustomed to the light, enough that he can make out the hectic spots of colour on Rayner's cheeks, the beads of sweat gathering at his hairline.

He looks feverish, close to the collapse Charlie had warned of, and when he finally stops moving and slumps down to sit at the end of the bed, Florian suspects that unconsciousness will be quick to follow. 

But his shoulders don't round, and his eyelids don't droop; he looks directly at Florian, his eyes clear and focused, and says, "I'm leaving."

"Leaving?" Florian asks. "To go where? To the palace?"

Rayner shakes his head. "Naw, just leaving the lodge. Leaving Caerwyn's employ. I've resigned my position as his High Mage."

"Why?"

"Because I told him about what's happened to the Otherworld and he doesn't give a shit." Rayner spits the words out as though the taste of them sickens him. "He doesn't intend to do anything about it himself, or to help me fix it. Way he sees it, he's only got two mages in his cadre and Dafydd's got, what? Five in his cadre and twenty in his father's? It'll hurt his odds more than Caerwyn's when the war comes and, according to Caerwyn, that gives him the tactical advantage."

It'll hurt more than that; more than just the royal cadres. Left unchecked, the rot in the Otherworld will infect every magic user in the kingdom – if not the world entire – from College-trained mages to healers to gardeners who paint the one rune they know on the trunks of apple trees to protect them from frost.

"But he can't just turn his back," Florian says. "So many people will suffer, not to mention the fae. He's got to do _something_."

"He _should_, but he won't," Rayner says. "Like I told you before, he's single-minded, and beating Dafydd comes before everything to him. The way he sees it, after he claims victory over his brother and takes the throne, _then_ we can look into what's happened to the circle under the palace."

"That could be months from now. Years, even, depending on the king's health."

"Aye, I know. But he's made his decision and he's going to stick to it, come what may. I can't stay loyal to man like that, so I'm leaving."

"And what's going to happen to me?" Florian asks. Without his magic, he'll be of no use to Prince Caerwyn either as a mage or as a hostage, as Prince Dafydd is no hurry to get him back, seemingly, and no doubt for the same reason. At best, he'll probably be left to rot in this horrible little room until the still-hypothetical war is over.

"I don't think he'd have you executed, seeing as though you might come in handy as leverage with Dafydd at some point, but you likely wouldn't be treated as well as you have been without me here to put in a good word for you," Rayner says. "You'd be moved to a proper gaol cell for a start. And if you think the food you've been served here is bad, just wait until you try the prison gruel.

"So, you've got two choices ahead of you, De Courcy. Either you stay and take your chances with Caerwyn, or I can set you free."

"And Prince Caerwyn would allow that?" Florian says, astonished, his heart fluttering with hope.

"I don't give a shit about what he would or wouldn't allow." Rayner shrugs. "I don't really want to leave you here with him; I'm not sure I can trust him to do right by you anymore."

It's not really a choice at all. "Well, then I'd like to free, thank you, Rayner," Florian says.

Rayner grins, sharp and swift. "Thought you would. Come on, then; let's go."

After a couple of subtle hints and one outright, exasperated demand, Rayner makes a red-faced retreat to the far end of the room again where he turns to face the wall so Florian can safely get up and get dressed.

Though Rayner exhorts him to take care, stay silent, and be on his guard as they make their way down from Florian's tower gaol cell and through the lodge, it appears that it had not occurred to Prince Caerwyn that Rayner might be planning on orchestrating a jailbreak and making his own escape. There are no soldiers patrolling the halls, and they encounter only one servant cutting across the grounds outside, and she doesn't even lift her head to look at them as they pass her by.

When they reach the farmland beyond the formal gardens, Rayner heads towards a small copse of trees at the edge of one of the fields. There are six horses gathered in a tight knot beneath their spreading branches, four of which have riders, all of whom are holding covered lanterns.

Florian recognises Fox and Charlie instantly, and he presumes the young man with the heavily bandaged left leg is Charlie's hitherto unseen Second, Rob. When the final rider looks back over their shoulder towards Fox, their sharp profile is limned by the pale lantern-light, and Florian's heart feels to turn over in his chest, so suddenly and so hard that he's left gasping for breath. It stops him dead in his tracks.

"Mayhew," he whispers. Tears pool hotly at the inner corners of his eyes and he ducks his head, reflexively hiding them from Rayner even though it's surely too dark for him to see them, either way. "I thought he was dead."

"Caerwyn wanted you to, though I couldn't tell you why," Rayner says, drawing to a halt alongside him. "It was only a routine border patrol you ran into, and we're not at war yet, so Caerwyn's soldiers were hardly prepared to fight to the death. Your Second got knocked out after you set off running, and he got brought to the lodge with the rest of your soldiers when they surrendered.

"They all got patched up and sent off home to the palace except for Mayhew. Caerwyn wanted to keep hold of him, for reasons best known to himself."

"Whatever his reasons, I'm glad he kept Mayhew safe." Florian's missed his Second keenly, and the road to Eboracum will feel so much the shorter with him at his side again. "So, you're letting us both go free?"

Rayner takes a worryingly long time to answer, and even when he does speak, he doesn't sound particularly sure of himself.

"Aye," he says haltingly. "If that's what you want."

"Of course it is," Florian says, baffled that Rayner could even entertain the idea that his answer might be anything else.

Rayner shifts his weight from foot to foot, clearly unsettled. "Well, I was sort of hoping that you might want to come along with Fox, Charlie and me."

"Why on earth would I do that, Rayner?" Florian says. "We need to find out what's happening at the palace as soon as possible; you said it yourself. Mayhew and I are the only ones who can go there unhindered, and now we can't count on your prince, we'll just have to manage things as best as we can on our own."

"But you don’t necessarily have to," Rayner says. "We do have other options. Apparently, Princess Bethan's got sick of how Dafydd's running things, too, and just this last week taken herself off to set up her household at the old summer palace in Vinovia. It looks like there might end up being three sides to this war when it comes, and I want to see what she has to offer. Hopefully, she'll be a bit more reasonable than her brothers. 

"Wouldn't it be better to have help, De Courcy? You have no idea what you're going to be walking into when you get back to the palace. At the very least, Bethan will be able to catch you up on what's been going on there whilst you've been gone."

Which is, regrettably, true. Some small part of Florian, still loyal despite everything because of the grand opportunity Prince Dafydd had once granted him, refuses to believe that His Highness could have a part in such a despicable act as poisoning the Otherworld. The more rational majority is just as strongly convinced that he must be aware, had maybe even commanded it directly, as none of the royal mages would have done such a thing – so inimical to their best interests – on their own initiative or without his knowledge. 

"And who would you be able to trust at the palace?" Rayner continues. "Is there anyone apart from Mayhew?"

There's just one person, and though she's skilled and moderately powerful, she's no 'youngest mage in over three hundred years'. Although it pains him to admit as much, he is doubtful that he'll be able to accomplish much on his own with the rest of the palace working against him, like as not, and, more painful still, there's probably no greater ally he could have in this than Rayner.

He takes a deep breath, steeling himself to say, "You're right. I think I should stay with you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been absolutely blown away by the response to this fic! Thank you so much to everyone who's read, kudosed, bookmarked and/or commented along the way!
> 
> If you've enjoyed the story so far, I hope you'll join me in the sequel, which will shift to Jack's POV and include a few more of my favourite tropes!
> 
> The first chapter of it should (all being well) be posted pretty soon, as it's mostly drafted out already.


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